


Out of the Ashes, Into the Fire

by coplins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A rat - Freeform, Action, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Angst and Humor, BAMFs, Brotherly feels, Castiel and Lucifer (Supernatural) are Siblings, Comedy, Crimes & Criminals, Criminal Winchesters, Homelessness, M/M, Mention of snakes, Minor Character Death, Murder, Samifer side pairing hinted at, Smart Dean, Violence, mentions of drug and alcohol abuse (Not the main character except Sam trying weed once)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-01-28 15:03:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 100,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12609284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coplins/pseuds/coplins
Summary: (Action/comedy with some drama and lots of brotherly feels) Dean thinks he's saved when he sees the car idling at the red light. He's exhausted from running and soon the cop cars will turn the corner and catch up to him. He needs the money he stole to bail out Sam, not get thrown in jail himself. So he does what any sane person would do. He rips the car door open, throws himself into the passenger seat, points his gun at the driver and yells "Drive!" The driver, a suit wearing, preppy corporate douchewad, reacts as if he's done nothing more than wave a candy cane around. Maybe if Dean had paid attention, he'd have seen it as the first sign that something’s wrong.By the time Dean figures out that he might have gone out of the ashes into the fire, it's too late. He finds himself being coerced into doing a job for Lucifer, who can only be mafia, with Sam's life hanging in the balance. Then there's the other challenge - trying NOT to fall in love with Lucifer's brother Castiel that they pick up along the way. Honestly, Dean's not sure which challenge is the hardest...





	1. HITCHING A RIDE WITH THE DEVIL

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! What a ride!
> 
> I started writing this fic two or three years ago, and have failed the deadline twice. I'm happy to finally be able to present my first DCBB! :D I'm forever grateful to the three people who have supported me and helped me throughout. My two awesome Betas [mizz_kitty21](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mizz_kitty21) and [YouCantKeepMeDown](http://archiveofourown.org/users/YouCantKeepMeDown), as well as [ArchOfImagine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchOfImagine/pseuds/ArchOfImagine) who kept me going and helped keep me inspired.
> 
> I also want to extend huge thanks and lots of love to my super awesome artist [Labluekatt1721](https://labluekatt1721.livejournal.com/8577.html)! :D <3 I can't tell you how much it means to me to see my story illustrated, and how I've turned to a sappy, gooey, happy mush any time I've gotten to see the sketches. It's made my day for so many days! <3<3<3  
>  **[[LINK TO ART](https://labluekatt1721.livejournal.com/8577.html)]**
> 
> If you are a Samifer shipper and saw the pairing in the tags - most happen offscreen, but when time allows I've planned to publish timestamps of what happens when Dean isn't looking. ;) (However, it's necessary to have read this to know their background.) Also included in this is reluctant Ducifer BroTP, because I love it when they're trying hard not to get along but getting along famously anyway. ;)
> 
> This story contains a lot fewer triggers than the stuff I usually write, but if you do find one I have missed to put in the tags - please notify me so I can update them!
> 
> That's it, folks! Happy reading!

* * *

 

**HITCHING A RIDE WITH THE DEVIL**

* * *

Dean is pounding the pavement as fast as he can. Heart beating frantically, adrenaline pumping and lungs burning. Lactic acid will soon take its toll on his ability to run and he can hear the police sirens from just a block or two away. _ShitShitShit! I ain’t gonna make a clean cut!_ If they spot him he’s toast. If he doesn’t find a solution _right about fucking now_ , that’s exactly what’s going to happen.

There’s a traffic light up ahead and a silver sedan is idling, waiting for the light to switch from red. Dean sends a thankful prayer to his lucky star and puts in a last burst of speed to catch up to the car before it gets a green light. He makes it and yanks the passenger seat door open, throws himself inside and yells “ _Drive! Drive! Drive!_ ” at the driver while pointing his gun at him. He slams the door shut just as the traffic light switches to green. The driver, a blond man in a suit, gives him an unfazed look. Nevertheless, he shifts gears and drives off. Dean keeps the gun trained on the driver but looks frantically out of the side and rear windows, trying to spot the police. “ _Jeezus._ Can’t this thing go any faster!”

”It can. But that would look as conspicuous as a man running with a gun and a messenger bag in hand. The cops are more likely to catch on if I floor it, don’t you think?” the driver asks rhetorically, almost sounding bored.

”Oh yeah. Right. Good thinking,” Dean says, staring between the seats through the back window as the sirens get nearer.

“Get your head down, boy. They might still see you if you keep fidgeting and flipping back and forth like a jacked up monkey.”

”Hey! Watch your mouth, asshole,” Dean protests and glares at the driver. He should show some fucking respect. Dean’s the one holding a gun after all.

The driver heaves a tired sigh, reaches down between their seats and pulls the lever on Dean’s seat, making it slide back. “Footwell. Now,” he commands. Blinking lightbars can be seen coming around the corner behind them so Dean crams himself down in that tight space as good as he will fit. His heart's still pounding like a war-drum in his chest. Inadvertently, he holds his breath as the police cars are getting nearer. The driver mutters “Amateur,” under his breath and pushes a button. The locks click shut but Dean pays him no mind at the moment.

The driver slows down and drives to the side to let the police cars pass like a good stand up citizen should. Dean finds it unnerving when the sirens come closer and then the blue and red from the lightbars atop the cop cars reflect on the interior as they pass. Two whiz by at a relatively high speed.

”Stay down. One more coming, but slower,” the driver warns.

Sure enough. Soon another cop car passes them without lights flashing. Dean lets out the breath he’s been holding but stays down for another block as their speed once again increases.

”I must say, I’m curious. Three cherry toppers all in your honour? You must have fucked up pretty bad. What did you do?” the driver says conversationally while Dean climbs up in the seat again.

”Shut up! None of your fucking business,” Dean answers testily, then after a beat adds “I didn’t fuck up.” Hell no he didn’t! Yeah, sure, everything hadn’t gone as planned. Who’d have thought that a little office that was basically nothing more than a hole in the wall would have _nine_ fucking security guards? Dean had expected one or two. Maybe he should have expected it as it was a local branch of the huge greedy Garrison Corp. Those evil sons of bitches destroyed the lives of honest (kinda) Americans like the Winchesters on a daily basis. But still. Nine? Yet he’d still managed to get in, break into the safe, steal the money (and some other stuff that looked important), and get out _almost_ unnoticed. So now he had bail money for Sammy _plus_ he’d given those corporate assholes some punishment for all the suffering they’d caused.

The driver looks at him with a raised eyebrow and snorts in amusement before returning his attention to the road again. “Whatever you say, greenhorn.”

Dean bites back a retort. He rifles through the messenger bag, quickly pocketing a USB stick he found in the safe. He has no idea what’s on it, but if the Garrison thought it important enough to lock in a safe then Dean sure as hell doesn’t want them to have it. There are two envelopes in the bag too. Dean opens them, expecting deeds for houses or land, instead, there’s a list of names followed by combinations of numbers and letters. The second envelope is even more confusing. That list contains points in time followed by the same kind of combinations. Dean briefly considers throwing them away, but again―if it’s important to the Garrison… He leaves them in the bag.

Dean still pays no heed to the driver. There had been two mysterious key cards in the safe too. Right now he can only find one. He pockets that one too. There’s an obscene amount of money in his bag. More than he has ever seen in his life. It must be, what? Fifty grand? More than enough to bail Sammy out. When they had set his bail to ten grand Dean had felt like his life was over. Come on! The only thing the kid had done was chain himself to a tree, wave a protest sign around, and yelled a few insults. That was like one-third of Dean’s yearly income and he only had a few days to get it.

Dean looks up to get his bearings. They’re coming up to a T-section. “You need to take a left here,” he commands and gestures with his gun at the driver.

”Do I now?” the driver asks dryly and switches on his blinkers. However, instead of going left, he takes a right turn, towards the freeway.

”The fuck, man. I told you to go left.” Dean stares angrily at him.

”I heard you. But that’s not where I need to go, so why would I?”

Dean can’t believe what he’s hearing. It’s like _now_ Dean’s brain decides to catch up with the driver’s behaviour. He’s not exactly responding to being threatened with a gun as one would expect, now is he? A warning bell goes off in the back of Dean’s mind and he gets a sinking feeling in his gut. He looks at the driver―really looks―for the first time. The guy is what? Mid-thirties perhaps, got short neat blond hair, cold blue eyes under heavy eyelids, and wears a gray suit that looks tailored to him. He reeks of arrogance and money. _Exactly_ the kind of stuck-up corporate douchebag Dean hates. His blatant disregard for the gun aimed at him is more than a little unnerving. “Turn this fucking car around now or I swear to God, I. Will. Shoot. You,” Dean threatens, putting his finger on the trigger.

The driver doesn’t even spare him a glance. “You find that to be the soundest tactical thing to do, tyro? Considering we’re going 65 miles per hour on the freeway? I fail to follow your reasoning. Please, feel free to enlighten me.”

_Shit._

_Yeah okay. Point taken._

”Look, man, I really need to go to the police statio―”

The driver’s laughter breaks him off. “I hate to break it to you, hayseed. But if that is where you’re aiming for you’re going about this all wrong. You could have just,” the driver makes an amused sturgeon face and shrugs a shoulder, “... _not run_.” He chuckles and shakes his head, giving Dean a look of pity and fond amusement.

”Fuck you, dickwad. I need to bail someone _out_ of the slammer, not get thrown there myself,” Dean says and huffs indignantly. Inside he’s beginning to feel panic come crawling. It won’t do Sam any good if he shoots the asshole. He can’t exactly bail him out if he dies in a car crash. He can’t throw himself out of the car or he’ll end up breaking every bone in his body and probably get run over by a truck to boot. For how the driver is acting he might as well be waving a Teletubby plushie at him instead of a gun. He’s basically a hostage in the car he jacked.

_FUCK!_

”Put that thing away or you’ll end up hurting yourself,” the driver says as if he could hear Dean’s train of thoughts. “And there’s always the risk of passing an unmarked cop car, hammy. If they see you waving that gun around they’ll pull us over.”

”Fuck.” Dean doesn’t put the gun away, but he does take his finger off the trigger and rests his gun in his lap where it won’t be seen by a car going by. He runs his hand over his face and tries to figure out how the hell he’s going to get himself out of this mess. He fervently wished he could go back in time. Back to when the Garrison Corp. was just a company you read about in the newspaper once in awhile. When he had dreams of becoming an engineer working for NASA and Sam still aimed to become an ecology professor. When they still thought mom was an angel and dad was just dad.

* * *

**17 years ago…**

The drizzle was icy cold on Dean’s cheeks as he held his father’s hand and watched the casket be lowered into the ground. He could hear Sammy crying softly into dad’s neck, securely held against dad’s broad chest by an arm. Dean wasn’t crying. He was ten years old, too old to cry. It didn’t stop his heart from breaking. He felt chilled all the way through despite the warm jacket. Numb. They were never going to see mom again. She was never ever going to laugh with them. No more baking for hours. She used to do that. They’d wake up in the morning to find her singing and baking in the kitchen. She baked _everything_. Cookies, cakes, muffins, pies, macaroons. She’d enlist them to help. Make Dean her head chef and Sam her head slobberer. She’d insist every kitchen needed a slobberer. They’d bake the whole day. Those were good times. Except dad would get mad at her. “ _Damn you, Mary! You promised you’d never do it again. Think of the boys! One day that stuff will kill you. And what are we going to do then? Please, stop…_ ” Dean didn’t understand why he’d get mad. They were having fun, right? Dad would join them later. He’d smile and laugh too but with something sad in his eyes.

There’d be days when mom would craft with them. She had boundless energy. She’d decorate the whole house with the stuff they made together. Like when Dean was supposed to make that planet model for school. She had helped him and they’d ended up making tons of planets and stars, hanging them from the roof all over. They were so caught up they even forgot to eat. Dean had been so proud. When dad came home Dean had immediately run up to him and lead him into the living room where their handmade universe began. For a beat dad had looked heartbroken and sad when he saw it, then he’d smiled and praised their work. Dean had heard him argue with mom later though when he and Sam were supposed to be asleep. “ _Where did you get the money for it? Dammit. That was our rent money, Mary. This can’t go on like this. Mary, please. You’ve got to stop._ ”

Mom was so beautiful. She never got fat like other moms. And she had so much energy, like she didn’t even need to sleep. Except when she got sick sometimes. She’d lock herself in the bedroom for days. Dad would take off work then and stay home and take care of them. There were periods when she just went away. Dad never explained where she went, he’d just say she’d be back. Though he didn’t look so sure when he said it. Now she would never come back again. She was such an angel. Dean couldn’t understand why they were the only ones at her funeral.

”Why’d she die, daddy?” Sam asked in the car back home from the funeral.

”She was… she had cancer, son,” dad answered after a moment of hesitation.

”Was she in a hospital?”

”Yes, she was.”

”She was gone so long. Why didn’t we get to visit her?”

”She didn’t want you to see her like that, son. She wanted you to remember her good sides…”

* * *

Later that night Dean couldn’t sleep. He snuck up to wake dad up but dad wasn’t in his bed. Dean found dad downstairs. He was sitting on the sofa crying and talking to himself. No. Talking to mom. He was very drunk. Dean had never seen dad drunk before so he hid, not daring to approach. “Why Mary? Why’d you do it? How could you just leave us like this? The boys are asking how you died. What am I supposed to tell them, Mary? The truth? Why were we not enough for you? We should have been. I love you so much. _So much._ Why couldn’t you keep clean for us? Why could you not love us back?” Dean went back to his bed confused. What did dad mean? Mom kept clean. She had days when she would scrub the house absolutely spotless. Even the inside of the oven, polishing every piece of cutlery and dusting off every knick-knack they had.

It was the first time Dean had seen dad drunk, but it wouldn’t be the last time...

* * *

**Present day…**

They’d been driving in silence for 20 minutes. By now Dean is more concerned with how the hell he is going to get out of the car than anything else. His leg keeps bouncing restlessly. His palm is sweaty against the gun handle. He almost jumps when the driver breaks the silence. “So, buckwheater. What’s your name?”

”You can call me Jack,” Dean answers, picking a name out of the blue.

”I didn’t ask what I can call you, laic. I’ve got more than enough of ideas for that. I asked what your name is,” the driver says, sounding annoyed.

”None of your fucking business, asswipe.”

The driver gives him an exasperated look and suddenly stands on the break. A car honks behind them and Dean is catapulted forward, banging his head on the dashboard so hard he sees stars. “You’re being awfully rude to someone who saved you from the police, greenie. Let’s try this again. What’s your name?” the driver says patiently as they keep moving forward after the sudden half-stop.

”Screw you!” Dean shakes his head trying to get his vision to clear as he leans back up again.

The driver sighs heavily and breaks hard again. Still too dizzy to stop it, Dean slams right back into the dashboard. The driver chuckles. “There’s a lesson to be learned here, cadet, if only you’re willing.”

” _Fine_. My name is Dean, okay?” Dean answers and crawls back into his seat, not wasting any time before he fastens the seatbelt this time.

”Very good, rookie. You’re learning. See that wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

Dean bites back an angry retort. He may have a seat belt on now but his head is spinning and he is not keen on getting it shook up again.

”So. Hi Dean. Nice to meet you. My name is Lucifer, but you may call me Luce,” the driver says pleasantly.

”Lucifer? For real?”

”Yes.”

”Well that fucking figures,” Dean answers sarcastically. No wonder the bastard turned out to be a creepy sadistic psychopath in an expensive corporate suit. He probably came out from the womb that way. Lucifer chuckles again and pats his shoulder companionably but removes it before Dean has a chance to shake it off. “Where are we going anyway?”

”We’re going to pick up my brother in the business district. We’ll be there shortly. You’ll like him. His people skills are also somewhat lacking.” Lucifer’s brows draw together with a contemplative expression. “Maybe not as bad as yours, though,” he adds thoughtfully.

”For fuck's sake, there’s nothing wrong with my goddam people skills.”

”You do come across as quite abrasive, Dean. Not to mention your choice vocabulary,” Luce says, humour carrying strongly in his voice.

”Yeah well, _excuuuuse me_ for skipping over the how-do-you-do’s,” Dean says with an eyeroll. “You try carjacking the mother Theresa way while runnin’ from the rollers. Doesn’t mean I can’t fucking clean my act up should I want to.”

”I wouldn’t _try_ carjacking, jellybean. I would _succeed_ in it,” Lucifer sniggers.

Dean feels his temples pounding. He’s got one helluva headache coming up and he’s sure it isn’t because he just got his head slammed on the dashboard twice. “Look, man, you were the one who insisted on getting my name so why don’t you use it instead of callin’ me every word in the dictionary synonymous with amateur, okay?”

”I’ll consider it. _Dean,_ ” Lucifer says in a dry tone of voice that makes ‘Dean’ sound like another insult. Dean sighs and closes his eyes. No matter how long he has to stay in this car with this douchebag it will be too long.

* * *


	2. THE GUMMY SMILE

* * *

**THE GUMMY SMILE**

* * *

Dean can hardly believe his eyes when they sidle up along the pavement outside one of the Garrison Corporations’ head offices. An enormous skyscraper reflecting the city around it like a giant mirror. “There he is,” Lucifer says and nods towards a man that comes walking down the stone stairs from the entrance. And _woah_! Okay fine. So the guy is another corporate douche. His three-piece tailored suit, aviators and black briefcase stinks of money. But _hot damn_. He’s walking straight-backed but with an air of casual arrogance like he owns the fucking world. For all Dean knows, maybe he does? He looks like an ad for jet-setters. Drape this guy over a car and everyone would fall all over themselves to buy it. (Or maybe that’s just Dean?) All the guys want to be him and all the girls want to be _with_ him. (Or maybe that’s just Dean again?) This guy is the type who comes with his own theme song for Christ sake!

The man gets into the back seat, fastens his seatbelt and pins Dean down with a stare. (At least Dean thinks so. He can’t see the guy’s eyes behind the aviators he is totally rocking.) “Who’s this?” he asks, clearly directing his question to Lucifer. A discontented little wrinkle forms between his eyebrows and he directs his gaze towards Lucifer instead. “Did you adopt another abecedarian again, Luce?”

_Oh, for fucks sake!_ Dean takes back every nice thought he had about the man. He’s just as big of a dick as Lucifer is. Dean ain’t no fucking amateur and he sure as hell ain’t gonna sit here and be insulted by _two_ pompous dicks in suits with egos the size of fucking Texas! He unfastens his seatbelt, grabs his messenger bag and yanks the door handle to open the door. It’s locked. He spins around to look at Lucifer, probably looking a bit too unbelieving than his own pride warrants. 

Lucifer smirks at him. “Would you look at that? Childproof. Isn’t that fitting?”

”You gotta be fucking shitting me?” Dean says incredulously as Lucifer starts driving away. He pulls his gun and points it at the man in the back. “Stop the car and let me out or I will shoot him!” Shooting the driver is one thing. But shooting another passenger does not pose the same risk. The dark-haired guy in the back is equally unfazed by the gun pointing in his direction as Lucifer had been.

”An unwise move, learner,” Lucifer says, making Dean look back at him.

Dean’s heart misses a beat when he spots Lucifer holding a gun with a fucking _silencer_ pointed at him while dividing his attention between Dean and the road. The guy in the back clears his throat. A glance in his direction reveals that he too has produced a gun with a silencer and aimed it at Dean. “Jeezus Christ!” Dean falls back in his seat and puts his gun away inside his jacket. “Fuck.” He buckles his seatbelt again. “Fucking _hell_.” He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, heart pounding hard in his chest. “ _Shit. Shit. Shit._ ” Who the fuck _are_ these people? “How is this my life?”

”He’s quite… _verbal_ ,” the man in the back muses.

”That he is,” Lucifer agrees. “Dean, do you remember our lesson from before? It wasn’t that long ago, you should be able to recall it.”

_He can’t be serious?_ Dean opens his eyes. The guns are no longer anywhere to be seen. Lucifer gives him a patiently encouraging little nod as if he was a little child. Dean rolls his eyes and sighs pointedly, then turns around and plasters on the most fake smile he can muster. “Hi. My name is Dean. How do you do?” he says, voice oozing with sarcastic pleasantry.

The guy tilts his head. He’s got one helluva poker face. Without seeing his eyes behind those aviators his face doesn’t give away a single thing. Not so much as a muscle twitch.

” _Cas…_ ” Lucifer says in a chastising tone of voice.

”Hello, Dean. My name is Castiel. Nice to meet you,” Castiel answers dutifully at the prompt. He’s got a low rumbling voice, like silken gravel, but with no emotional inflection whatsoever. Dean hates him. 

”See what I mean, Dean? His people skills are as bad as yours,” Lucifer reflects. “Glad we got that out of the way.”

* * *

Dean’s staring out of the window pretending to ignore the two douchewads in the car. He’s afraid, to be honest. He has no idea where they’re going or what they’re going to do to him. And how the hell is he going to get Sam out of the slammer if he can’t even get out of a friggin’ car? He is hoping the conversation he is pretending to ignore will give him a hint.

”How did it go?” Lucifer asks Castiel.

”Not as planned. It wasn’t there. I only found one of the flash drives. I should have known something was amiss when the security proved to be surprisingly inadequate.”

”The intel was solid. It must have been moved. You think they suspect us?”

”I don’t see how. But they suspect something since it had been removed. We need to find it soon or we’ll risk them getting on our trail.” Castiel’s voice is a monotone drone. A low rumble that Dean doesn’t find sexy _at all_ , okay?

”If they aren’t already on to us. Alright. We’ll think of something.” Lucifer’s fingers drum restlessly on the steering wheel. Whatever has them thwarted it serves them right.

Castiel is staring at him. Dean can’t see him while looking out the window, but he can _feel_ it. Sure enough, when Castiel speaks, it’s about him. “Where did you acquire the neophyte? I thought you weren’t going to take on any new disciples after what happened with the last one.”

”I’m no goddam Neopet or whatever, okay?” Dean protests grumpily.

Lucifer hums, unmindful of Dean having spoken. “I didn’t take him on Cas. He just sort of happened all by himself.”

”Oh?”

Lucifer smirks and throws a glance into the back seat. “He came running down the street in fully fledged panic, cops hot on his heels, threw himself into the car waving that gun around like he was trying to poke himself in the eye, and yelled at me to drive.”

Castiel makes a little choked up sound that makes Dean turn around to look at him. Castiel is trying to withhold laughter.

Lucifer continues. ”The poor little boy was jumping around in his seat like a kangaroo on acid, so what could I do? I had to help him.”

Castiel cracks up laughing, scrunching up his nose and revealing a huge gummy smile that totally transforms his face. Dean fucking hates gummy smiles, okay? There’s nothing charming about it. It isn’t. Especially not on somebody laughing at him. “I did not. It’s not that funny,” he says to Castiel, then turns scowling towards Lucifer. “I wouldn’t call this helping. This is kidnapping for Christ sake.”

”I’m trying to keep myself from mentioning something about glasshouses now Dean, but you’re making it very hard.”

While Castiel collects himself in the back seat Dean switches tactics. “Hey. Look. Come on man. Just let me go. All I need is ten grand from what I stole to bail my brother out of jail. You can keep the rest. There’s a lot of money in here,” he lifts his messenger bag to accentuate his point. “Just, let me go, alright?”

”Let me see,” Castiel bids and holds out his hand. Reluctantly, Dean hands the bag over. He and Sam could have lived well off of this money for a year at least. But as things stand, the top priority is getting out of this damn car alive and get Sam out of jail. Castiel opens his bag and takes out a stack of money, flipping through it quickly. Both him and Lucifer are wearing faint smirks, like this is a great joke. It’s quiet except for the _brrrrt,brrrrt_ -sound from the bound money stacks as Castiel deftly counts. Five stacks go on the seat beside him. “This is ten grand. Let’s see how much more there is in here,” he says and goes on counting. Suddenly the smirk falls off his face and he goes back to being poker-faced. He looks up at Dean. “Where did you get this?”

Lucifer catches on to the mood change and looks at Castiel through the rearview mirror. Cas holds up the key card so he can see and the older man’s smile falters too. “There’s a local office not far from where I picked him up,” he offers.

Dean feels icy trepidation spread through his veins. Really, how big was the chance he’d end up locked in a car with armed corporate trash belonging to the very company he’d just robbed? Castiel coming out of their main office wasn’t proof of it. Suits from all over would pop in and out of that building on a daily basis. But this? _Shit._ He is toast.

Castiel rifles through the rest of the bag, finding the envelopes too. “Did you find anything else in that safe? Did you take everything?” he asks seriously.

Lucifer is side-eyeing him with a slight air of apprehension. Hadn’t he noticed when Dean pocketed the other stuff? “No,” the lie rolls off Dean’s tongue easily enough. “I just took as much as I could. There was still stuff in there but the place was crawling with security guards. Didn’t wanna get caught.”

Lucifer hums. “So the rest could still be in there. Did you by any chance see another keycard, a flash drive, and a silver key on a chain?” he asks.

Silver key? No. There hadn’t been a key or he’d have taken that too. He’d cleaned that safe out. “I dunno. wasn’t exactly stayin’ to smell the roses.”

Another shared look amongst the two and then they all the sudden switched to another language, talking away in what sounded like a rather heated discussion in what appeared to be Russian. They seem to come to some sort of agreement and Castiel goes back to counting money. “Dean. I have a proposition to make,” Lucifer says. “As it stands, you’re a liability to us. It would serve us best if you, let's say, ended up dead in a ditch. A fate you came perilously close to sealing, with your rudeness in the face of my gracious help earlier. Now, I don’t want that to happen and neither do you, I suspect.” He raises an eyebrow and looks at Dean.

Yeah right. If he didn’t want that to happen, Dean wouldn’t be risking it in the first place. These guys were fishing for something that was gonna cost Dean much more than whatever he was in for already.

”Luce has a soft spot for bush leaguers. He didn’t want to waste you. I’d say he’s grown weak,” Cas interjects from the backseat. 

Lucifer scowls. “Weak am I? _You’re_ the one who said he was too beautiful to die.”

Castiel sputters. “I did not―!” His mouth snaps shut. Then, almost sulkily he adds “I believe my exact words were ‘too pretty’.”

”Hey. I’m not pretty okay? Guys ain’t pretty. We are, I dunno, handsome, good looking, whatever. _Not pretty._ ”

Castiel tilts his head and gives him that creepy stare again. Dean wishes he’d take those fucking aviators off so he could get a reading on the guy. 

”Word of advice, Tyro. When people argue about reasons not to kill you, you don’t come up with counter-arguments,” Lucifer says with a little snigger.

”Fine. What- _ever_. Mr. Highballer Model of the Year in the back seat can call me whatever he wants. Can you stop messing with my head and just spit out what it is you want?”

Castiel looks away with the tiniest fragment of a smile tugging at the corner of his lip. And… Is he _blushing_? He totally is! All because Dean let slip that he finds the guy hot? Or would be if he wasn’t such an asshole. Huh.

”Fair enough,” Lucifer concedes. “Cas, how much money is there?”

”84 grand in total. Minus 10 for bail. That leaves 74.000 dollars.”

”You heard that, Dean? 74 big ones left after we bail your brother out. Money we’ll let you keep if you agree to help us. Let's make a little ‘we’ll scratch your back if you scratch ours’ kind of deal.” Lucifer gives him a smile that probably is meant to look friendly, but falls short in Dean’s eyes.

”And if I refuse?”

”Dead in a ditch,” Castiel deadpans.

Dean figures he better start working on triggering the Lima syndrome and stop being so hostile or he’d never get out of this alive. He turns on the charm, twisting to direct a flirty smile at Castiel. “Aww, Cas. I’m hurt. I thought you said I was too pretty to die?” He winks and looks back at Lucifer. Use their names. Incite familiarity. Anything to make it hard to kill him. “So what’s the gig, Luce?”

”Despite your inexperienced appearance, you must have quite a lot of skill to have pulled off the robbery you made. Since you’ve done it once you can do it again. Chances are there’s another key card, a flash drive, and a key in the safe you broke into. We want you to help us get those. Once you have safely delivered those three items into our hands, you and your brother are free to go and you may take the money with you. We’ll part ways, you’ll never need to see us again and everyone will be happy.”

”Right. So you want me to go back to the crime scene which is probably crawling with cops by now, break back in, steal some stuff that may or may not be there, and hand it over. I fail to see where my back gets scratched in all this, Lucifer.” It’s hard to withhold insults and profanity. These guys are such major swines. But it’s not like Dean can’t adapt to ensure his survival. It’s all he’s done since dad died after all.

* * *

**9 years ago…**

It’s almost funny (no it isn’t) that an ice cold drizzle accompanies dad’s funeral just as it did mom’s. Neither Dean or Sam is crying. Somehow though, Dean feels closer to tears now than he did when mom died. It doesn’t make sense. Since mom died dad had been away working almost all the time, leaving Dean in charge of Sammy. In the beginning dad would do his best to keep a happy face on, waiting until they’d gone to bed before uncorking the old number seven. As the years passed by that slowly changed. He’d come home dead tired and go straight for the moonshine while he was making dinner. He’d still ask how their day had been and compliment them on their results in school and help them with their homework if they hadn’t finished it already. But he stopped showing up to their games and school plays. And his eyes were always sad and worried no matter how much he smiled. Then one day the Impala was gone. Dad loved that car to bits. (Dean too.) Yet for some reason he sold it. Said they needed the money. They were always short of money and Dean couldn’t figure out why. Dad was constantly working. 

After the Impala was sold dad somehow just died inside. One night Dean found him crying on the couch, totally wasted. “ _I’m so sorry Dean. I should have taken you and left Mary long ago. But I loved her **soo** much! I couldn’t Dean. I couldn’t leave her. I hope you’ll forgive me. You don’t deserve this. I knew better. I should have saved you when I had the chance. I’m sorry._ ” Dean helped him to bed, shook up inside. He didn’t know what dad was talking about and dad was too drunk to answer questions. It got worse again. Dad worked even more. Didn’t come home until 9 or 10 in the evenings. They hardly saw him, and when they did it seemed him and Sam always ended up fighting. Mostly about college. Dad said Sam couldn’t go and Sam said he could do whatever fuck he wanted to.

Last week the police showed up at their doorstep. Dad had been found shot dead outside of his workplace. A robbery gone wrong most likely. One would think with how little they’d seen of their dad the last two years it’d be easy to take, but no. Dean felt like he got his heart ripped out and torched. When they came he still had his acceptance letter for college burning in his pocket, itching to tell dad he got in. Now dad will never find out.

The walk home from the cemetery is muted. Sam is not in the mood to talk, laden down with guilt that _his_ last words to dad was a screaming match where he told dad he was just a deadbeat old drunk and could go to hell for all he cared. At least Dean’s last words to dad were “I love you, dad,” that got an “I love you too, son,” in return as Dean helped dad from the couch into the bed. Dean had never stopped hoping things would get better. He remembered more of how dad was when mom was still alive, and how hard he tried to keep things together the first years. Sam, being four years younger, had more vivid memories of the bad stuff.

When they come home there’s a man in a suit with a briefcase waiting for them outside their home. “Dean Winchester?” he asks.

”Yes?” Dean answers hesitantly. There’s something about the man that sets off warning bells in Dean’s head.

”Hi. My name is Raphael Angelus. I work for the Garrison Corporation. I’m here to inform you that you have 48 hours to move out, as we’re seizing your property to clear your family’s debt to us now that John Winchester will no longer be able to pay us off.”

”The _fuck_?! You can’t do that!”

”I’m afraid I can, Mr. Winchester,” the man says almost sounding bored while he hands over a stack of papers. “It’s well within our rights. Mary Winchester owed us a great deal of money and left the house as a security. When she passed away we were gracious enough to allow John Winchester to pay off the debts monthly instead. Now that he too has passed we’ve grown impatient and will not extend the same offer to you. Though we are not heartless. We will allow you to keep anything you wish to hold onto from inside the house, except hardware like kitchenware for an instance. As long as you have vacated the premise within 48 hours.”

Sam starts arguing and protesting but Dean is busy reading through the stack of paper the man gave him. Shock is spreading like ice through his veins. The papers look legit. Proving that their mom indeed had a sky-high debt to the Garrison Corp. going on a 50% interest rate. That dad had indeed chosen to pay instead of letting the Garrison make him and his two sons homeless. That the court had granted the Garrison the right to confiscate the property that had been given as a security. Worse even, that dad’s debt would be partially cleared by all his monetary assets, which included his savings account aka Dean and Sam’s college money and inheritance. It’s almost too much to comprehend and Dean’s head is spinning with dread and denial.

Numbly he watches the man bid them adieu and walk away while Sam shouts profanities at him. Dean has no recollection of how they walked into the house and end up on the couch but that’s where they find themselves. Sam reads the papers over and over. “I don’t get it, Dean. How can they do this to us? It’s not fair!” Sam slaps a hand over his mouth and looks like he’s about to cry. “Holy shit Dean. I just thought he drank away all our money. Jesus Christ! He was paying off this shit while saving up to college for the both of us _and_ providing us with food, clothes and stuff we needed. And I said to him… I said… Oh god… I…” Sam crumbles into tears then and Dean grabs him into a tight hug, needing something solid to cling to just as badly.

”Hey-hey, it’s okay Sammy. It’s not your fault, okay? You didn’t know. He lied to us.”

”He was trying to protect us from this and I accused him of… Jeezus.”

Dean has to fight real hard to keep his own tears at bay. He’s 18, a grown man. He needs to be strong for his baby brother. “Yeah, and he shouldn’t have. If we had known, we could have helped. I could have worked part-time and kept out of sports. We could have ditched the house and moved to an apartment or something. It’s not your fault, Sam.” Guilt is heavy in Dean’s stomach now too. He’d played every sport he could cram into his schedule while keeping his academic results up. Sports equipment wasn’t cheap, especially not when you were growing and had to get new gear ever so often. The math part of Dean’s brain is working furiously tallying up the amount of money that had gone into supplying for Sam and Dean’s extracurricular demands. Granted, they hadn’t been well off, but at no point had they been denied things that stimulated their intellect or bodies.

”What are we going to do, Dean? We don’t have any money and in two days we’ll be friggin’ _homeless_!”

”Don’t worry ‘bout it. We still got each other, right? As long as we’re together we’ll figure something out. Hey. Look at it this way. At least it can’t get any worse, right?” 

It got worse…

* * *

**Present day…**

”I see how you may take it that way, freshman. I’ll tell you what. I’ll sweeten the deal,” Lucifer says and shares a look with Castiel through the rearview mirror, getting a small nod in return. “There’s going to be quite a manhunt for you. I can tell you that with 100% surety considering you decided to mess with the Garrison.” Dean snorts derisively but Lucifer ignores it. “So not only will we let you keep the money. Once you’ve delivered the items, we will provide you and your brother with fake identities so that you much more easily can disappear from the radar.”

”I already have a fake ID, Luce.”

”He isn’t talking about fake IDs, Dean,” Cas drones from the backseat. Dean turns around to find him staring at him. “We’re talking fully functional identities. Social security numbers, passports, driver’s licenses, school records, the works. On paper, everything will look normal. Should someone try to find you in old yearbooks you won’t be present, of course, but the school will have you in their computer files. I have… _talents_.” Castiel’s lips curve into a hint of a smirk as he says that last word. Dean had not previously found it distracting how Cas’ lips shaped words. He _hadn’t_ , okay? But damn his traitorous mind for wondering what other _talents_ the voguish uptown dickhead might have. _Shit._

Dean swallows and tears his attention away from perfect jawlines and broad pale lips. Now’s not the time to admire aesthetics. “Are you corporate spies or something?” he asks to gain some time to think. He watches the road ahead not to get sidetracked again. He can still feel Castiel’s eyes on him though.

”Something like that,” Lucifer agrees.

New identities would be handy as fuck. Neither Sam or Dean had a clean record with the law. If Cas really could produce something like that it’d be worth a lot. But you know, if it sounds too good to be true… Well. If you looked at it crassly it _didn’t_ sound too good. Not considering Dean risked both jail time and his life and they risked nothing. It just didn’t sound true. Not that it mattered. Dean needed to get out of this car so he could bolt. Preferably with the money Cas was currently transferring from Dean’s messenger bag into his fucking suitcase. By now Dean was starting to think bolting without them was just as good. Two arrogant shitheads who looked at his gun like it could do no worse than squirt water? While toting pieces with silencers themselves. They might belong to the corporate world Dean hated but must be fucking mafia or, indeed, _spies_ or whatever. Not exactly the boys you want to hang with on the playground. “How do I know I can trust you?”

”You don’t,” Cas stated simply.

” _Cas,_ ” Lucifer chastised. He gives Dean an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, fledgeling. Cas is a bit blunt. But he speaks true. You can’t really know, can you? However, both me and Castiel are men of our word. I promise that as soon as you’ve delivered the three items we want, we will let you go, safe and sound, with money and brand new identities. On my honour.”

”Pffhah. Company killers like yourself have no fucking honour,” Dean blurts out then immediately backtracks. He was supposed to make them _like him_ , dammit. “Alright. Let's say I believe you. What’s the fine print? There’s always a catch with you country club clan.”

”We don’t trust you,” Cas says but Dean doesn’t turn around to look at him. Instead, he looks at Lucifer who’s side eyeing him looking… pleased? That can’t be good.

”There is, of course, probie. As Cas said, the trust issue goes both ways. Before we send you in, we’ll bail your brother out of jail. We’ll keep him with us while you go in and do your thing, to ensure your devotion to our cause. No harm will come to him. Unless of course, you decide to betray us.”

Dean groans. “Dude. You’ve got the money. Why don’t you just hire some low life thug to do the job instead?”

”We’re trying to, but you’re being very difficult,” Cas snarks.

Dean throws him a withering stare, getting a condescending smirk in return. It’s fucking unholy how sexy it looks when his lips curl that way, one corner taking the lead, revealing a hint of his teeth. Making him look like a self-satisfied predator who’ve just delivered a smack down to a cub. There should be some law against people with his looks to have such horrid personalities. But then again. These guys weren’t exactly law-abiding citizens anyway.

”Ah. You see, the thing is this―” Lucifer begins to say but is promptly cut off by Cas.

”My brother’s a spiritual moron.”

” _Cas!_ ” Lucifer’s voice is a whip crack and his face grows cold and hard. If Dean had thought he looked unsympathetic before, his demeanor now is all but bone-chilling. There’s no doubt in mind that the man beside him wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger on the gun he’s carrying and walk away unaffected like it’s another day at the office. Dean pretends not to be affected by it. “You see what I mean about people skills, Dean?” And then to Cas, “Lucky for you we are related.” Cas snorts, sticks his chin in the air and looks out of the side window. Lucifer looks back at Dean, visibly reining his temper in. “What I’m trying to say is, I believe in randomness as much as the next guy. You getting into this car was quite a random. But when it turns out you were carrying the very thing my brother was at the Garrison to get, then it’s nothing short of Fate. For one reason or another we were meant to meet. Higher powers set us up and when that happens you go with it or things turn bad. It has to be you, flunky. It’s destiny.”

Great. Just great. He’s sitting in a car with some hippie corporate killer douche and his stick up the ass brother. All he needed was ‘ _Destiny_ ’ to get involved too. “You can’t be serious?”

”Oh he’s serious alright. Like I said - moron,” Cas chimes in from the back.

Lucifer spouts a harangue in Russian or whatever language they’re talking and it triggers another heated discussion between the brothers. Dean thinks that if he says yes, he can bail Sam out, then they can sneak out the back door or something. And if that doesn’t work he can play along. He already got the items they’re after, right? Besides the key, but it wasn’t there, to begin with. One way or another he’ll get away with this. “I’ll do it.”

* * *


	3. ALONG CAME SAM

* * *

**ALONG CAME SAM**

* * *

”Right. Just give me the money and I’ll pop in to bail my brother out,” Dean says 20 minutes later when they’ve stopped outside the police station.

”You’re not going to bail him out,” Lucifer says.

”But you said―”

”I said _we_ are. We can’t risk having you pull a disappearing act on us, now can we, naif?”

_Fuck._

”Look, Dean.” Lucifer turns in his seat and gives him one of his not-quite-friendly-but-trying-to-be smiles. “We can do this one out of two ways. Either you can make it hard for us and we’ll have to use force.” As to accentuate his point there’s a clicking sound from the hammer of a gun being pulled back coming from the back seat. Sure enough, Cas has his gun out and trained on him. He is poker-faced as seems to be his default. “Or you can play along and we’ll be friendly. You choose. Now hand over your gun.”

_Fuck._

For a brief moment Dean considers refusing. But Cas’ face is a stone mask he can’t read with those fucking sunshades on, and Lucifer’s eyes are ice cold making his ‘friendly’ expression terrifying. Sam’s gun is stashed in a locker by the train station so if they can just get away they can arm themselves again. He complies reluctantly, feeling naked once he hands the gun over. He hasn’t gone unarmed for fucking years.

”That’s my good little dabbler,” Lucifer says looking pleased. The cold bleeding away from his eyes to be replaced by something akin to fondness. (Which, in truth, scared Dean even more.) Cas spirits away his gun again and Luce keeps talking. “So this is how it’s going to go. Cas will go in there and bail your brother out. He’ll introduce himself as a friend and explain that you have agreed to do a job for us. If you play along with this, we will, indeed, act as friends and this will turn out to be quite pleasant for you. If you try to alert him…” He lets the sentence linger, giving Dean a _Meaningful_ look.

”Listen asshole. I’ll play along with your fucked up game, alright? But this I promise you. If you so much as lay a finger on my little brother, I will tear your throat out with my bare hands. I will teach you the true meaning of pain. I will fucking haunt you _forever_. Got it? That goes for both of you.” Dean’s hadn’t even registered that he’d fisted Lucifer’s suit jacket and is pointing a finger at his face threateningly. Not that it seems to make any difference to Lucifer. If anything he’s looking kind of fond _ish_ at Dean again. Like Dean’s a ferocious kitten attacking his shoelaces. Cas has his gun out again. It’s like the thing just magically appears and disappears from his hand at will. Cas though. Oh man. His lips are slightly parted and his cheeks are definitely a darker shade of pink than they were before. Dean must be misinterpreting this because it almost looks like the guy is getting off on seeing his outburst of protective hostility. It’s probably just wishful thinking. Not that he has any wishes of that kind, okay? He’s not even Dean’s type. Not that he has much of a type. He’ll go for anyone who fits in the description ‘hot’, ‘cute’, ‘charming’ or―if he’s had enough drinks―just ‘nice rack’. But definitely not anyone who fits in the category ‘A-hole’.

Cas breathes the word “красавчик...” almost reverently. It’s probably an insult judging by Lucifer’s snigger. Dean lets go of Luce and leans back into his seat.

”Don’t worry, Dean,” Lucifer says and brushes the wrinkles out of his suit jacket. “If you play along we won’t touch your brother. There’ll be no problems.”

Yeah right. This whole thing already _is_ a problem. Whatever. Sam’s a smart kid. He’ll know something's wrong straight away.

* * *

”They’ve been in there quite a long time now,” Dean says, staring at the doors of the police station.

”Relax, trifler. They’ll come out soon enough. You’ve got to learn patience if you want to learn how to be successful in life.”

”Hey. I’m plenty successful compared to the hand I was dealt. You think I wanted this? This is not what I dreamed of doing when I grew up, okay?”

Lucifer hums. “What did you dream of?” he asks after a beat, sounding genuinely interested.

Dean heaves an exasperated sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look man. We’re not friends. I’ll do this thing for you and that’s it. No small talk okay?”

Lucifer shrugs and digs up his phone from a pocket. He opens up fucking _Words with Friends_ and starts playing instead of paying Dean any attention. Dean sneaks a couple of glances. The words he manages to build are insane. Guy’s got to be eating dictionaries for breakfast. ...as a side order for babies probably. Pfft. 

The silence drags on and Dean’s getting antsy. His thoughts are a jumble. Maybe small talk isn’t such a bad distraction. That way maybe his mind will stop flashing worst case scenarios. “I wanted to build spaceships.” Lucifer looks up, seemingly startled by Dean’s admission. “I wanted to become an engineer and work for NASA,” Dean clarifies now he’s got Lucifer's attention. 

Lucifer puts his phone away. “Those are quite high flying dreams. No pun intended.”

”Yeah well. I would’ve gotten there too if it wasn’t for the Garrison.”

”So you didn’t choose to hit that office at random?”

”Not even close,” Dean answers making a loathful face and voice dripping with bitterness and hate.

”What happened?”

Dean snorts. “You work for the bastards. What do you think happened?” he sneers. He’s hardly going to spill his guts about his life’s tragedies to this dickwad.

Lucifer purses his lips thoughtfully. “With the things I know, the possibilities are endless,” he says drily.

Dean lets out a little laugh. The guy at least doesn’t make excuses, he’ll give him that. It would have pissed Dean off more if he’d try to claim the Garrison was innocent.

* * *

**9 years ago…**

Sam and Dean had been sitting on the couch for less than an hour when there’s a knock at the door. “I’ll get it,” Dean says and gets up. Sam wouldn’t want anyone to see him like this, cheeks streaked with tears and eyes puffy and red from crying. He opens the door. Outside stands a smartly dressed woman in her forties, holding a clipboard in her hands. She smiles politely at him.

”Hi. My name is Naomi Milton. I’m a caseworker for the child protective services. Are you Dean Winchester?”

Dean’s gut twists uncomfortably. That feeling about something being very wrong is back. “Yes.”

”Good. I’m here about Sam Winchester. May I come in?”

”No. Look, lady, I’ve been home from my dad’s funeral for barely an hour. I’m not in the mood to play host. You got anything to say you can say it right here.”

”Is Sam home? This concerns him too.”

”No. He went out. He’s mourning.” Dean’s voice is short and clipped. This hostility might not be doing him any services, but he just wants her to go away. His mind has already supplied a reason why she might be here and he doesn’t want to get it confirmed. She looks at him with sympathetic eyes. She would be beautiful if his mind wasn’t screaming in panic that she was evil incarnate here to further destroy his life. “Just say what you came here to say, lady,” he says scowling at her.

”Very well Mr. Winchester. It has come to our attention that you have no living relatives. And we’ve additionally been informed that you’ll be homeless within two days. Therefore the state has decided to take custody of Sam. You are an adult already so I’m afraid we can’t give you the same help.”

”What about me? If I count as an adult, why can’t I have custody of him?”

”You have no means to provide for him. You don’t have a job and no home. This is for the best Mr. Winchester. It’s for Sam’s own good. And you can still visit him once a week.” She kept talking and handed him a paper but Dean’s mind refused to take in what he was hearing. They’d come pick up Sam tomorrow at noon. They were going to take Sam away from him. He was on the verge of throwing up, borderlining a panic attack. Finally he slammed the door on her and leaned his back against it, heaving deep breaths and still feeling like he couldn’t get any oxygen.

”Don’t let them take me away from you. Please, Dean. We’re all we got. I can’t lose you too!”

Dean looks towards the living room door to find Sam standing there looking scared shitless and horrified. “You heard?” Sam nods. “I’ll never give you up, Sammy. Never. You hear me?”

Sam took three long strides and he was back to clinging to Dean. Dean let it anchor him. Life came crashing down but they’d make it. Together.

* * *

After that they sat down to discuss what they were going to do. Before CPS had come knocking they had talked about staying with friends until Dean had finished school and could find a job and an apartment. Graduation was just a few months away. But now? Not possible. They couldn’t go back to school or CPS would scoop Sam right up. They had to drop off the map. They decided to pack the bare necessities and head for the city in the morning. Until then they went through the house, scouring for valuables that could be pawned and stuff they might need. Under dad’s bed, they found a shoebox with a journal along with a bunch of papers that would give them yet another shock.

* * *

**Present day…**

Sam and Cas finally emerge from the police station. Lucifer whistles. “I must say, Dean. You and your brother pulled a jackpot in the genetic lottery.”

Dean smirks. “Yeah? Too bad Cas is the only one of you two who hit jackpot,” he teases. Contrary to what he expects, Luce doesn’t take offense. He just chuckles and shrugs a shoulder, not letting his eyes stray from Sam on the other side of the street. Sam is fucking _laughing_ at something Cas just said and gets a big gummy smile as a reward. Whatta fuck? How the hell…? Dean has a hard time comprehending how his brother could look so at ease with Mr. Hot Suit. Doesn’t he get how wrong this all is? Apparently not as he claps Cas on the back like an old fucking friend or something. A dark little knot forms in Dean’s stomach that feels oddly similar to jealousy which doesn’t make sense.

The pair crosses the street and Cas opens the door to the back seat and slides in behind Lucifer. Sam gets in behind Dean and immediately extends a hand to Luce. “Hi. My Name is Sam. Nice to meet you.”

Dean slaps a hand over his face and refrains from groaning when Lucifer shakes Sam’s hand and with a smile says “Hi Sam. I’m Lucifer, but you can call me Luce. You are very polite.”

”Yeah. My brother raised me right,” Sam answers and claps Dean on the shoulder. “Lucifer, huh? That’s not a common name.”

”Goes with his personality,” Dean remarks and hears a low pleasant chuckle from the back seat. He turns around to see Cas smiling lopsided at him and dammit if that smile doesn’t do stuff to him despite everything. 

”Don't be mean, Dean," Sam says, probably giving him a bitchface by the tone of his voice. Dean's not looking at him though. His own lips are tugging upward of their own accord in response to Castiel’s smile. 

"It’s no problem, Sam," Lucifer says. "Your brother may be coarse, but he grows on you."

"If you say so. Look. I’m starving. Can we go somewhere to eat?" Sam says. 

"They didn’t feed you in the slammer? You were in there for three days," Dean asks, twisting around in his seat so he can look at his brother. Sam being here with him works wonder to lay his worries to rest. It shouldn’t be as calming as it is as they’re both technically in danger now. On the other hand, as long as they’re together things tend to work themselves out well enough.

"They did. Swill. Haven't had such bad food in years." Sam makes a disgusted face. He’s notoriously picky about his food. It’s all about organic locally produced whatnot. Add to that that he ate his whole weight in food daily (figuratively) between the age of 14 and 19. At least it felt like it when Dean worked on keeping him fed while living rough. He was actually kind of proud that he'd managed to provide Sam with the diet he prefers after the first couple of months being homeless. It’s not like Sam had complained when he hadn't. But that had only motivated Dean more. 

"Then food you shall have. I know of a good place not too far from here," Lucifer says amicably and starts the car. "What were you in for anyway? Dean wasn't very forthcoming on the subject."

"Have you heard about the Garrison?" Lucifer nods and Sam goes on explaining as they drive off. It’s not like it’s a secret. "So get this. You know the forest down to the south? The Garrison bought it and are going to cut it down to build a factory..." and with that Sam launches into one of his passionate speeches about the environment and the importance of trees and whatever that Dean has heard a million times. _His_ brain automatically zones out but Lucifer seems enraptured by the subject. Castiel’s face has gone blank too. Possibly the mirror image of Dean’s own face. Eventually Sam gets to the point in the story where he chained himself to a tree, thus preventing the bulldozers from beginning their job of laying to waste the centuries-old forest. And by doing so getting himself thrown in jail with multiple charges. Sam has been a nature nut since he laid eyes on his first blade of grass in the backyard. Originally he dreamed of educating the world in ecological preservation, but when he was forced to drop out of school at fourteen he ended up going the extremism route instead. Sabotaging and protesting. His main target was the big bad Garrison Corp. Dean supports him in his endeavours, but personally he doesn’t give a crap about nature. As long as those life-destroying big corporations get a kick in the ass he's in though.

* * *


	4. 50 SHADES OF BLUE

* * *

**50 SHADES OF BLUE**

* * *

They get to the restaurant. A cosy little place with rustic interior that is right up Sam's alley judging by a quick glance at the menu by the door. To be honest, Dean is a bit confused. It’s almost like Lucifer is sucking up to Sam. Maybe it’s just them keeping their word about treating the Winchesters as friends until further notice. Dean and Cas end up opposite each other by the wall in the booth they choose. Lucifer slides in next to Dean, effectively stopping Sam from sitting there so Dean can’t whisper the true nature of what's going on to him. "Dude," he says, studying the menu. "This is not food. This is the food _my_ food eats." It’s basically just salads. Not that Dean minds eating a little greenery from time to time, but as a side order, not as a main course. 

"Number 26 is edible," Cas supplies helpfully without looking at the menu. He is busy staring at Dean instead. Indeed. No. 26 is the only item with actual meat in it. The rest is either seafood, vegetarian or chicken. 

"They’re _all_ edible, Cas," Lucifer says with the exasperated voice of someone who's had the same argument too many times. Then to Dean and Sam, "Please, choose whatever you want. It’s on us." Castiel keeps staring at Dean and Dean finds it unnerving. It’s like being scrutinised by a bug with giant black eyes. He imagines the guy has eyes as dead as his face is expressionless. "Take those off. Only cretins wear sunglasses indoors," Lucifer says in clear annoyance, proving yet again that he’s the big brother. 

Dean laughs. ‘Douchebags’ is the word he would have chosen, but the sentiment is the same. "At least he ain't lying 'bout what he is," he says mockingly. His laughter gets stuck in his throat though when Cas takes the sunshades off and he gets to see Cas’ eyes for the first time. They’re a far cry from the dead stare he was expecting. They’re big and blue, somewhere between the hue of cornflower and the shade of a stormy ocean, and _Holy shit_. Eyes are supposed to be the windows of the soul, right? Up until now, Dean hadn’t thought the guy _had_ a soul and all the sudden he’s fucking drowning in it. He doesn’t realise he’s been staring until Cas suddenly tears his gaze away by turning his head, eyes flickering around nervously trying to look anywhere but at Dean. It’s with a sense of elation that Dean realises that had he been wearing the aviators the gesture would have looked nonchalant. Now he just looked nervous. Dean is having a great deal more effect on Cas than he’d thought. He wonders if the statement ‘ _too pretty to die_ ’ actually held some truth in it. If perhaps Cas swings that way? Dean’s motives are just tactical of course. He’s not _really_ interested.

They order. Dean and Cas go for no. 26 while their brothers choose more exclusively leafy options. Against better judgement Dean orders a beer. He figures keeping fully sober would be better. But he has a high tolerance and a small amount of alcohol will help him relax. The others chose to go with alcoholic options too so why not, right? What he _really_ wants is to down half a bottle of jack and go to sleep. 

"So Castiel told me you are working for them. What’s the gig?" Sam asks and takes a sip of his glass of wine. He and Lucifer are sharing a bottle of white. 

”What exactly did he tell you?” Dean counters. He’s itching to know how Sam so quickly warmed up to them despite their expensive suits that ordinarily would be enough to evoke distrust. 

Sam smiles and claps Cas on the shoulder. “Cas told me that you saved his brother’s life a couple of years back. So when you came to them asking to borrow money for my bail and new identities they decided to give you what we need instead, if you just help them acquire a couple of items by..." Sam looks around to make sure they are not overheard. The restaurant is half empty (no wonder when they only serve rabbit's food) and they’re the only ones in this section so Sam turns back towards Dean. "...’ _illegal means_ outside of their area of expertise.’" 

Oh. They played the brotherly gratitude card, huh. That actually did make some sense. If there was one thing both Sam and Dean were likely to sympathize with it was brotherly love. So if Sam thought Dean had saved Lucifer’s life he would be inclined to believe the suits’ friendliness. It would look even more credible if they actually held their word and ‘paid’ Dean with the stolen money currently in Castiel’s briefcase. Also, by claiming Dean sought them out he’d be even more inclined to look at them with positivity. Cas and Lucifer are watching Dean with varying degrees of affable expressions, seeing what he will do. He tugs the corners of his lips down in the equivalent of a facial shrug and jerks his head. “Sounds about right. I’ll be hitting a local Garrison office for them.” 

Sam perks up at that. “Hah! Serves ‘em right. What’s the plan?”

The waitress chooses that moment to stop by with their food and they fall quiet for a moment to direct polite smiles her way until she goes away again. Lucifer is the one to speak up. “After dinner, we’ll go pick up another car. Cas and Dean will go scout the place to see when would be a good time to strike plus get pictures of Dean for your new IDs. You and I will get your pictures, pick up some clothes, and book two motel rooms at _Blue Beds_ down the freeway. We’ll reconvene there when they’re done.” He looks at Sam while he’s speaking.

”You don’t think they’ve moved the stuff by now?” Dean asks. He still has a hard time grasping that Lucifer missed that he pocketed the stuff they’re after while he was sitting right next to the guy. And they’re really playing this hoax up for Sam’s sake.

”No, they won’t have,” Lucifer answers between bites. “Only a few very select people have clearance to touch and move those objects and none of them is currently in the country. By my guess on their way back by now, so we don’t have much time.”

Dean catches Cas staring at him again. As soon as he does Cas’ eyes jump away and he turns his attention to Sam, asking some bullshit question about his environmental interest. Yeah right. Like he’s interested in that crap. Dean digs into his food. The steak salad is surprisingly good but his thoughts are on the man in front of him. Now that he can see his eyes, perhaps he can mess with him a little? 

Dean ignores the tiny butterfly in his stomach as he pushes his foot forward so it touches Cas’ foot. Cas retracts his foot without looking at Dean. Dean isn’t going to let him mistake that for an accident. They’re sitting in a booth and there’s only so far you can withdraw your feet without hitting the bench so Dean pushes forward again. He rubs his foot gently along the inside of Cas’ foot all the while he keeps eating like he’s not trying to play footsie with Mr. High and Mighty. Cas’ eyes widen a fraction and his gaze is back on Dean. _That’s right, Mr. Fancypants. I’m doing this on purpose._

It’s a shame they’re wearing shoes. This game is so much more interesting without. No matter. He’ll make do. Now that he’s got Castiel’s attention he ups the game, spearing a cherry tomato and with a flirty smirk bites lightly at it, then sucks it into his mouth with an audible pop, winking at Cas. At the same time, he pushes his foot forward and upward, making their calves rub together.

Castiel’s eyes go round, his cheeks heat up and he visibly swallows before diving for his beer, downing half in one go. Dean wants to throw back his head and cackle in evil glee at Cas’ display of awkward discomfort. Except, the fact that Castiel doesn’t try to remove his leg or tell him to stop makes that lone fluttering butterfly in his stomach multiply tenfold. He has to remind himself that he’s doing this to mess with the guy. He is _not_ interested, okay? He isn’t! The guy’s a douche, remember? 

_Get a grip, Winchester! So what if the guy’s good looking and has the most amazing expressive eyes you’ve seen in years. So what if he can go from badass king of Wall Street to awkward and endearing in the blink of an eye? He has pointed a gun at you_ twice _already. This isn’t a fucking date for crying out loud! You’re being coerced into this. Remember that and stop thinking with your dick, dammit!_

Except for those goddam butterflies. He usually doesn’t get them. He writes it down as to be caused by being nervous about the underlying threat in this situation. That makes sense, right? Right. Cas squirms in his seat and tries to focus on his food. Despite his squirming, he doesn’t remove his leg. Dean counts that as a win.

Lucifer notices Castiel's discomfort and blush and sniggers. “Would you look at that, Sam,” he says. "Cas finds your brother's good looks intimidating." 

”I do not," Cas protests indignantly and turns a darker shade of red. He glares at Luce and fires of a harangue in Russian before sinking down in seat sulkily. Lucifer just laughs at him. That semi-mean kind of laugh reserved for the teasing of siblings.

Dean sniggers, leans forward while sneaking a hand under the table, and looks at Cas with a suggestive smile playing on his lips. “Do you, Cas? Do you find me… _intimidating_?” he says and waggles his eyebrows. At the same time he caresses Castiel’s knee.

Cas sits up ramrod straight on the edge of his seat and scowls darkly at Dean. His eyes seem to shift to a brilliant blue colour. “No,” he says decisively, holding Dean’s gaze defiantly. His whole demeanor screams ‘ _Get your fucking hands off me!_ ’. At least that’s what happens above the table. Under the table, Dean is getting completely opposite signals. By sitting on the edge of his seat Cas comes even closer, and instead of angling his leg away he pushes it forward, granting Dean more access to reach. If Dean’s purpose had been to actually sleep with the guy he’d never have pressed on when his intended target displays such level of discomfort and dual signals. But he’s doing this to mess with the guy. To get back at him for backing Dean into a corner. If he feels unsettled, off balanced, or better yet― _fucking molested_ , the better it is. He strokes Cas up and down the inside of his lower thigh. Cas huffs and goes back to eating.

Sam has been watching with a bemused smile (unaware what goes on under the table). He puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder to gain his attention. “Watch out for my brother. He’s the love ‘em and leave ‘em type, and with how he’s looking at you, you might be in for some heartbreak up ahead.”

“I think I can manage," Cas says haughtily and sticks his nose in the air with a sniff that makes Dean snort a laugh. Cas arches an eyebrow and throws Dean a challenging look. Underneath the table, he pushes his leg forward as far as it will go without having to slouch. Dean can reach so much further since he cares jack shit about how he’s sitting. Who cares about table manners anyway? 

Lucifer is watching Cas with a smirk. “No. You can’t, and you know it. Remember―”

Cas scowls at Luce and interrupts him by shooting off another harangue in Russian, effectively stopping Luce from revealing what Cas was supposed to remember. Dean is not paying attention. While eating he caresses the inside of Cas’ thigh slowly upward. His heart is speeding up the higher he gets. Then his fingers connect with Cas’ crotch and Cas cuts off with a sharply indrawn breath, head snapping towards Dean with a shocked expression, mouth slightly open, eyes wide and pupils blown.

_Fuck, he’s hard!_

Dean’s dick starts to fill in a Pavlovian response to the hot and hard evidence of Cas' arousal under the pads of his fingers. Shit. This super-hot suit definitely swings Dean’s way! _You know what? Maybe getting him into bed isn’t such a bad idea? Like a, a perk. Yes! A perk of being coerced into doing this job._ Dean can’t keep himself from squeezing it lightly. Somebody whimpers. It’s definitely not Dean. It isn’t. That would be pathetic. He’s the one in control here, right? Right. All these butterflies let loose in his belly, all the heat and anticipation and _want_ that has suddenly flared to life within, it’s just because it’s been really long since he got laid, okay? It has nothing to do with the fact that Cas, in his own way, has more sex appeal than anyone Dean has ever seen, while at the same time blushing like an innocent virgin from any advances Dean makes. And so what if Cas has pointed a gun at him? Dean threatened to shoot him within minutes of meeting him. Fair is fair, right? Just look at those slightly parted pale wide lips, those big blue eyes looking at him with some mix of shock and vulnerability…

Knowing that he turns Cas on makes all the difference. Images of what Cas would look like, taste like, feel like, bombards Dean’s mind. It’s always like this for Dean. Basically, Dean is sexually attracted to most people. That first once-over when the subconscious measure if a person is fuckable or not more often than not comes up with a checkmark in the yes-square. Then the conscious part of his brain takes over and puts them in the no-compartment since he’s not some mindless beast and he has enough respect for people not to creep on them if his attention isn’t wanted. If he _knows_ he turns someone on, however, his libido kicks into drive again. It’s like getting unspoken consent to freely fantasise about and pursue the person. What’s not usual though, is the butterflies and the force of which the sheer want hits him. It makes no sense. Castiel is everything Dean hates. Rich, arrogant, ornery. Yet judging by the feelings warring with Dean’s logical part of his mind, it’s like all the time that has passed between the first impression and now has just been erased.

“Oh for god’s sake, Dean! We’re in a public restaurant. _Cut it out._ ” Sam kicks him under the table and bitchfaces him. Dean’s mouth snaps shut with an audible clack (when did it fall open anyway?) and he pulls back as if burned. Cas scoots back as far as he can on the bench and scrambles to put his aviators back on, needing to hide. Dean wishes he too could put sunshades on and feign being unaffected as he dives back to his food, stuffing his face. His heart is beating frantically in his chest and he is blushing like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. (According to Sam he had been, but Dean and Sam had vastly different views on what you could and couldn’t do in public.)

_Jezuz fucking Christ! What just happened? It’s not like I haven’t touched a dick before. This is fucking ridiculous!_

Luce sniggers. “Aww. Don’t be a cockblock, Sam. Cas hasn’t managed to frighten off this new kid on the block yet with his caustic personality. If your brother wants to screw my brother’s brains out right now, you should let him. A couple of more hours in Castiel’s presence and he won’t want to touch him with a ten-foot pole.”

“Dude. We’re in public,” Sam protests.

Lucifer shrugs and makes an unbothered sturgeon face. “There are restrooms in the back if you’re sensitive about it.”

“Oh my god, you’re just like Dean!”

Both Dean and Lucifer sniggers at that and before Dean even thinks about what he’s doing he holds his hand out towards Luce for a low five and gets his palm slapped. They both direct shit-eating grins towards Sam who rolls his eyes in exasperation. Dean tries to rationalise his behaviour through his plan to evoke the Stockholm syndrome (Or is it the Lima syndrome? Whatever.). “You’re being unfair, Luce,” Dean says then. “Cas isn’t _that_ bad. I mean, come _on_. He’s unreasonably good looking. I almost forgot how to breathe when I first saw him.” It’s worth saying it just for the way Cas’ ears turn red. His blush goes all the way down his collar. The guy has absolutely no control over his blush. None. Zip. Nada. He keeps looking down on his food but Dean can see the corner of his lip curling slightly upward. It sends a thrill down Dean’s spine.

“Ah. You’re saying that now, colt. But you don’t know him. I’ve never known anybody who has gotten more drinks thrown in his face, more offended slaps, or as many black eyes, as my brother has while playing the game of love,” Lucifer answers with a fond little smile while looking at Cas with his head tilted. "His good looks is no help when he speaks.”

Cas _tssks_. “It’s not like you fare any better.”

“What are you talking about? I have no problem getting laid.”

“That was not what I was referring to, as you well know,” Cas answers and points at Lucifer with his fork. “You said ‘ _the game of love_ ’, not the ‘indulgence of carnality’.”

“ _That_ has nothing to do with love, Cas. It’s just something I enjoy doing,” Luce retorts looking annoyed, before taking a sip of his wine.

Both Dean and Sam have been following the discussion like a tennis match. Dean is mighty curious about what they’re talking about. Sam beats him to the punch by asking “What is it you like to do, Luce?”

“He likes to pick up lost boys,” Cas answers offhandedly and stuffs food in his mouth.

Lucifer inhales his wine and sputters, beating his chest with his fist to find his air. Both Sam and Dean stare at him with horrified expressions. Dean already knew he was a douche, but _that_ was passing a limit that couldn’t be forgiven. Dean is already planning on how to rip Lucifer’s throat out when Luce gets out an angry “ _Cas!_ ” and Cas looks up and takes in Sam and Dean’s shocked expressions.

“Oh,” he says. “Not _children_ ,” he clarifies. A grin spreads across his face and he chuckles. “That would have been abhorrent. Luce would never do that. Heh. No, I mean boys like you.”

“Thank you for making our new friends think I’m a child molester,” Lucifer says sarcastically and glares at his younger brother.

While the Winchesters have relaxed marginally again, Sam is looking concerned. “What do you mean by ‘lost boys’, Cas?” he asks.

“Luce has a Messiah-complex, if you will. So he tends to adopt young, intelligent men with a lot of potentials but no apparent direction, just like you. Then he acts like a mentor to them, raising them to greatness.”

Lucifer himself still glares daggers at Cas. He purses his lips but doesn’t say anything, just leans back and drapes his arms over the backrest of the bench and stretches his legs out under the table. 

“That... doesn’t sound like a bad thing," Sam hedges. 

“It isn’t. Nor does it have anything to do with love,” Lucifer cuts in sharply, but won’t take his eyes from Cas. There’s obviously an old argument underneath this discussion.

Cas scowls so deeply his eyebrows draw down beneath his sunglasses. “It is _not_ a good thing. You get far too attached and it ends badly for the both of us. And now you’ve gone and taken Dean under your wing and it will get us both killed.”

“Leave tenderfoot out of this,” Luce snaps.

Dean is a bit taken aback. What does Cas mean by that? Lucifer hadn’t offered him a mentorship. Not that he’d say yes if asked. 

Sam is looking mightily confused. “Am I missing something here…?”

“ _NO,_ ” all three of them say at the same time and thus making it _very fucking clear_ that Sam is, indeed, missing something. Sam throws his hands up in a gesture of surrender, eyebrows shooting upward and bending his head down in a silent ‘alright, I won’t poke my nose into your secrets’. He will of course. But not until he and Dean are alone.

“I’m real fucking curious about what happened with the last guy,” Dean says. He wasn’t before, but now he is. Now it seems to concern him. Somehow.

“It’s not important, starter,” Lucifer answers and turns his attention towards his wine. He takes a sip and then swirls the wine in his glass, looking down into it like it held the answer to life’s mystery.

Cas relents and takes off his aviators again. He meets Dean’s gaze with a concerned one of his own, then turns his head to look at Sam too. “Look. It’s like this. We live a life that was chosen for us regardless of what we wanted. Our work is not a job based on empathy. It would be a great lie to say our business is conducted with fairness and honour. But we have one thing we hold as holy no matter what we do, and that is we never, _ever_ , break a promise. If we promise something it’s written in stone. Unless we are betrayed first.” Cas runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end, and exhales through his teeth before looking back at Dean. Gone is the poker face, replaced by frustration. “Our line of work is powered by greed but still requires a great deal of loyalty. Turned out Lucifer's last disciple did not honour promises the way we do, and turned traitor for money, landing us in quite an unsavory predicament. And since Luce believes in destiny, you are caught up in it.”

Lucifer shrugs a shoulder like it’s no big deal. “It was Fate that made our paths cross. We were meant to meet,” he says looking at Sam with those icy blue eyes of his and quirking his lips upward. If Dean didn’t know better he’d say Luce was flirting with his little brother. Cas rolls his eyes. _He_ does not believe in ‘Fate’ and makes sure they know that, using body language alone.

Dean doesn’t know what to believe right now. Is this part of the game they play? To gain the Winchesters’ trust? It could be. In fact, it is the most logical reason why they’d tell them this. Throw a little pity party to lull them into a false sense of security, then―dead in a ditch. Yeah, no thanks. Dean was going to figure out how to do the job and get away with Sam and him still intact. And somewhere along the way, he had to have Cas. He _had_ to. At least once. The guy wore a waistcoat for god’s sake! He’d screw Cas and then screw them over as a revenge for forcing him into this. That’s it. For revenge. Not because the thought of kissing the grumpy man across the table made fucking hallelujah choirs sing inside his chest. Not because he could spend the rest of his life happily staring into those soulful blue eyes that shift hue from stormy oceans to brilliant skies. Staring. He’s doing it. Right. Dean tears his eyes away and takes a drink of his beer self-consciously.

“Don’t worry. If there’s one thing Dean has taught me, it’s to always keep our word. So we’ll help you.” Sam smiles reassuringly at Luce. Dean wants to scream at him.

Fucking great! Can’t Sam see how fishy this whole setup is? Sam’s not usually this blue-eyed. So what if he’s only 23? Normally he has a good instinct about people and a healthy distrust of anyone wearing a suit. Why is that instinct misfiring now? But Sam clinks his glass together with Luce and smiles shyly over the rim of his glass while sipping the wine. If Dean thought for a minute that Sam was into older dudes he’d accuse his little brother of thinking with his dick. But that couldn’t be because Sam was sitting right next to Cas who probably is the sexiest man alive and he isn’t looking at Cas, he is looking at _Luce_. So his dick clearly _isn’t_ doing the thinking. While Sam is just about as unconcerned about the gender of his love interests as Dean is, he is about 99% pickier and always plays for keeps. So whatever it is that has Sam’s head all scrambled it isn’t his libido. No, that’s Dean’s department. This is just getting worse and worse.

* * *

**9 years ago…**

The papers are legal papers, economical stuff related to the debt to the Garrison, but there are also other papers, hospital journals and admittance papers to…

“No, no. This can’t be right…” Dean says, shaking his head in denial, eyes wide in disbelief.

“Let me see,” Sam says and tugs the papers out of his hands. “ _Drug Rehabilitation Center_ ,” Sam reads out loud. “Wow. I was not expecting that.” He shuffles to the hospital journals and reads those.

“No. No, Sam. It can’t be right,” Dean repeats with a monotone voice, eyes still wide, staring at nothing. “Mom died of cancer.”

“Apparently she didn’t, Dean. This makes so much sense―”

Dean’s gaze snaps to his little brother with a deep scowl. “What do you mean ‘ _makes sense_ ’? Nothing about this ‘ _makes sense_ ’!”

Sam rolls his eyes. “But it does. Think about it. All those times she got all obsessed with something, like cleaning, or baking, or playing with us. She was high. She forgot to feed us because she wasn’t hungry herself. When she locked herself up and was sick she went into withdrawal. When she went away she went on a bender or whatever it’s called when you’re doing drugs. Or she was in rehab. According to this, she went to rehab three times.”

“According to that, she died of an overdose. How can you be so calm about it!”

“Dean,” Sam lowers the stack of papers to his lap and gives Dean his sympathetic puppy-eyed look. “I loved mom as much as you did, drug-addict or not. And that’s okay. This just explains so much about every bad thing that has happened to us. Dad lied about the debts to protect us. Don’t you think he would lie about how mom died for the same reasons? He didn’t want us to think badly about her.”

Dean shakes his head in denial and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want this to be true. Mom was an angel. Pure and wonderful and bright and,... _Please, just, no…. she died of cancer! She died of cancer!_ He knows it isn’t true. Everything dad said and did that had puzzled him as a child made sense in the light of this but he didn’t want to accept it. Couldn’t. Not his mom. Not _his_ mom! Tears come unbidden. It feels like losing his mother all over again.

* * *

**Present day…**

After dinner, they get back in the car and Sam and Luce once again get into a discussion about nature and environment that has Dean and Cas bored out of their minds. Dean is staring out of the window, not even trying to follow the discussion. Ever so often he throws a look into the rearview mirror and almost every time he finds Cas looking at him through it. Cas is wearing his aviators so it’s hard to know if their eyes actually meet or not. But Dean winks or waggles his eyebrows suggestively and the pink that tints Cas’ cheeks when he does, tells him that Cas can’t take his eyes off of him. Honestly, Dean doesn’t really understand that. He knows he looks good. People tell him all the time. A bit too often in degrading terms. “Pretty boy”, “Ken doll”, and so on. But Cas is so fucking beautiful. And he obviously could be charming or he had never gotten Sam to warm up to him, even if he hasn’t wasted any of that charm on Dean. Dean ignores the jealousy that bubbles up inside of him with that thought. Cas is rich, stylish, fucking perfect if you didn’t account for his personality. He could have _anyone_. What the fuck would he want with Dean? He is wearing military boots, boot cut jeans so worn down they’ve got holes in the knees and not for fashionable reasons. His green henley too is fraying at the cuffs and has the occasional hole. His tan Carhartt jacket has stains that will never wash out from working construction. Every single piece of clothes Dean is wearing is stolen and has seen years of hard use. He must look like a total hobo in the eyes of the two suits. And yet Cas keeps looking, keeping his expression carefully blank again.

Luce turns the car into a parking lot and cuts the engine. He turns towards Dean with a friendly smile that makes Dean’s skin crawl. “Time to shine, dilettante. You and Cas will take that car over there,” he points at a black, nondescript sedan next to where they’re parked. “And I will take Sam with me to get his photos and book our hotel rooms for the night. When you’re done we’ll meet back there, alright?”

“Sounds good to me,” Sam answers from the back. Lucifer’s eyes flick back to him looking almost fond. Then Lucifer gets out of the car, walks around and opens the door for Sam and Dean both.

“You’ll ride up front with me, of course,” he says to Sam who gives Lucifer a brilliantly dimpled smile that makes Dean want to gag. Cas gets out and ushers Dean towards the new car and before Dean knows it he's sitting in the passenger seat getting a wave goodbye from Sam as they drive off.

* * *


	5. INTO THE FRAY

* * *

**INTO THE FRAY**

* * *

“If Lucifer hurts my brother while we’re away―” Dean threatens but is cut off.

“No need to be concerned about that, Dean. Luce will not harm Sam in any way unless your brother explicitly asks him to,” Cas answers with the tiniest up quirk of the corners of his lips. 

Which, wow, okay, that’s a weird phrasing.

Dean scowls at him. “Why the fuck would he ask for it?”

“Each one to his own. I do not cast judgment on other people’s preferences,” Cas answers.

“Dude. Sammy’s not gonna be havin’ any _preferences_ with that douchebag brother of yours, okay?”

“Are you certain of that? It’s not how I perceived it,” Cas says, side-eying him. “Although I confess. I may not be as adept at gauging the level of sexual or romantic interest people display, as I would prefer. Hence the number of drinks I’ve gotten thrown at me,” he adds sullenly and flexes his hands on the steering wheel.

Dean sniggers. “Well, I’m tellin’ you, Cas. My brother has no interest in your brother _whatsoever_. And maybe if you removed that stick up your ass, you’d find people to be a lot more interested in having drinks _with_ you instead of throwing them _at_ you.” And because he’s dumb and Cas is the sexiest person to ever walk this earth―dickwad or not―he can’t help himself. “Who knows, Cas? Maybe some of us are willing to take a chance on you anyway, stick an’ all,” he says with a meaningful smirk and pats Cas high up on the thigh, throwing him a wink.

Cas tenses and casts him another side-eyed glance (sitting beside him is great! Now at least Dean can see those glances despite the aviators) and blushes. Seriously. How can anyone blush _so_ easily? It’s fucking cute, that’s what it is.

Cas compresses his lips to a thin line and remains quiet for quite a while. Dean leans his elbow on the window and supports his head on his hand, head twisted so he can look at Cas. He keeps having to hold back the impulse to put his hand on Cas thigh and just keep it there. He wonders what Cas would do? _Probably freak out and drive us off the road in pure shock._ The thought makes Dean snigger and consequently Cas to side eye him and frown.

After a while, Cas’ brows smoothes out. He opens his mouth and draws breath as if to say something then closes it with a somewhat frustrated exhale.

“Come on, buddy. Talk to me,” Dean encourages, curious at what’s on Cas’ mind.

“Very well. So if I understand you correctly… Would you? ...Perhaps you would… be amenable to a sojourn into the realm of pruriency… with me?”

Dean bursts out laughing. He can’t help himself. That must be one of the funniest things Dean’s ever heard! No wonder the guy never gets laid. Dean laughs so hard he doubles over, gasping for air. When he finally collects himself he has to dry his eyes. Cas is scowling so hard his brows has dipped down under the rim of his sunglasses and his cheeks are burning crimson. “ _Dude_ , that was the weirdest way I’ve ever heard anyone say ‘Wanna fuck?’ in my life,” Dean says with a huge grin.

“My speciality lies in binary code, Dean. Not in the vernacular varieties of plebeians.”

Which, of course, sets Dean off laughing again.

“I don’t see what’s so humorous about this. You understand me perfectly well from what I can discern,” Cas argues with clear chagrin in his voice.

Dean practically howls with laughter. “ _Oh god_! Buddy, you gotta stop! Can’t. Fucking. Breathe!”

Cas squeezes the steering wheel in vexation, waiting for Dean to come to his senses again. It takes time. As soon as he collects himself another giggle fit comes bubbling up.

“So.” Dean takes a few deep breaths to steady himself lest he starts giggling again. “Binary code, huh? In other words, you’re a hacker?”

“Amongst other things, yes, I guess you could say that.”

“So how do you say ‘Fuck me’ in binary?” Dean asks and waggles his eyebrows. It’s meant as a tease, a joke, but…

“01000110,01110101,01100011,01101011 01101101,01100101,” Cas rattles off as if Dean had asked a serious question.

As if a human being could possibly fucking _speak_ binary code. The guy must be Vulcan or something to say at least! Dean loses it. 

“Would you please stop laughing, Dean. You’re being difficult, not to mention _rude_.”

“ _Phew_. I’m sorry, Cas, but you’re hilarious.” Dean dries the tears that have run down his cheeks. He’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. “I don’t think I’ve met a savant before...”

“I think savant is a bit of an exaggeration. Although my cousin Raphael always said me and my brothers had some syndrome that didn’t run in their part of the family. Luce always agreed and said ‘Yes. It’s called intelligence.’,” Cas’ lips quirk up into a small self-satisfied smirk as he says it.

Dean sniggers. “He sure got that right. I’m starting to think it’s a good thing you’re so stuck up. I mean, you’re hot as hell, rich, smart, and funny even if that’s accidental. But if you added charm to that equation and the world would be powerless not to fall at your feet.” Cas got a big ego, but if you’re aiming to get someone into bed―stroking it never hurts.

Cas lips quirk upward another notch. “Speaking of powerless at my feet, you never did answer my question, Dean. Do you?”

“Do I what?”

Cas side-eyes him. “ _Wanna fuck_?” The words sound _so_ foreign coming from Cas mouth that Dean can’t help bursting into laughter again. Cas gets mad and refuses to talk to him for the rest of the drive. Considering he'd propositioned Dean, at least now Dean’s certain Cas is interested too.

* * *

**9 years ago…**

The first few weeks are hard on the boys. They leave town for fear of being recognised. Any friends, neighbours, or acquaintances may give them up to CPS and they fear being separated. They hitchhike to a big city where they are just a couple of homeless kids amongst tons of other homeless kids.

They sleep under bridges, in doorways, and other places like it. Sometimes they’re run off, sometimes they’re joined by other homeless people. Money was scarce to begin with and Dean can’t find a job. He feels downright ill when he has to resort to stealing the first time. But Sammy’s hungry. Sam doesn’t complain. He doesn’t have to. Dean can hear his belly rumble, all while Sam starts looking pale and drawn. He leaves Sam at a library and heads for a supermarket. There he fills his pockets with whatever he can get away with, his heart thumping frantically in his throat. He's so fucking ashamed of himself. He'd never thought he'd end up a _thief._

He returns to the library and finds Sam reading a college book on ecology. It hurts his heart to know that Sam won't even be able to finish high school when the boy's so fucking smart. The hatred he feels has yet to find a direction, nevertheless hot hatred wells up inside of him. It's not fair. Sam deserves better. 

That night they seek shelter in a school, hiding in the boiler room in the basement. It's the warmest, nicest place they've found since they left home, offering both lack of disturbance, and electricity. All they had to do was hide from the security guard before lockup. 

“Where did you get the money to buy this?” Sam asks when Dean reveals his bounty. He’s sitting cross-legged next to the boiler, looking at the pile of fruit and snacks while Dean stands anxiously across from him. Sam picks up a Snickers, peels it, and starts munching.

“Um. Now don't get mad,” Dean answers with his neck bent and runs a hand through his hair. “I, uh, didn’t buy it. I stole it.”

“Okay,” Sam answers and proceeds to stuff his face like he’s never seen food before.

Dean holds up his hands in defense. “I know it was wrong, but I had to do it, Sam. I _had_ to! We’d starve otherwise. You gotta understand.”

“Mhm.” An apple is next. Sam bites off a huge chunk, chipmunking it while chewing. Hell, but he barely chews before swallowing and biting off another huge chunk, getting part of the core and all.

“I promise I’ll only do it when it’s strictly necessary. It’s not like I’m a criminal. I mean―” Dean cuts himself off to stare at Sam digging into a banana, apple fully obliterated. Sam bites off almost half the banana in one go then looks at the sticker on the peel with a frown while he chews. Dean hadn’t looked at the sticker when he stole the banana. Trust his little brother to check if his food is organic even when he’s on the brink of starvation. 

But Sam doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he looks up at Dean. “You think this place has motion detectors?”

“The school?”

“Yeah?”

“Doubt it.”

“Then we should shower and raid the canteen. Maybe check if we can find some valuables we can pawn.”

Dean can barely believe his ears.

“You serious?”

“Dean. Society doesn’t give a shit about us. We’ve lost everything and they wanted to take you away from me too. I don’t care anymore. We do what we need to do to survive, right?”

“Yeah, okay…”

That night they sleep clean, and full, on a nest of blankets and pilfered clothing they found, tucked in behind the boiler. Sam’s out like a light. Dean can’t sleep. He’s got trouble coping with being a criminal. A lot of new risks and opportunities open up if they don’t try to obey the law. He vows that if he can get a job, he’ll always try to make right for himself. This is only temporary. Maybe if he finds a job he can find an apartment. Maybe Sam can go back to school. They’d have to get a fake ID for Sam, then, so the CPS won’t get on their trail, but still… it could be possible. After lying awake for God knows how long, he sits up and digs dad’s journal out of his backpack. It’s been weeks since they left home and none of them has had the energy to read it. Now Dean opens the journal and starts reading. He ends up wishing he hadn’t...

* * *

**Present day…**

“You’re not seriously expecting me to go in there without my fucking gun, are you?” Dean asks and looks at the office he robbed earlier today. There’s no police car outside, and there’s a suspicious lack of activity considering the earlier heist.

_The place should be crawling with cops trying to brown-nose their way into the Garrison’s favour by finding out who did it. Where the fuck is everyone?_

“Cas. Dude. Seriously.” Only silence meets him from the driver’s seat. He turns to look at Cas. The guy’s more stone-faced than Michelangelo’s David and staring right ahead. “I’ll trade you. BJ for a gun?” Dean (kinda) jokes.

Cas turns his head and gives him what must be a completely flat stare even if he removed the aviators.

“I’ll take it that’s a no-go,” Dean states. “Alright. Your loss. Wait here. I’ll be back in ten.”

* * *

A few hours ago this place had spooked Dean with its alarming amount of guards, now it’s the opposite. He can spot one security guard, and one man in a suit who paces back and forth while yapping in his phone in probably-Russian. There are no cops and no traces of an investigation. It’s fishier than the Pike Place fish market in Seattle. It reeks. Whatever The Garrison is up to, Dean gets the feeling that it isn’t legal. In fact, it had been a better sign if there’d been cops here. 

Getting in is so much easier this time. He finds a corner to hide in and waits. Looks at his wristwatch. It’s a cheap, black plastic, digital thing he’d filched from a market stall a few years ago. Trash, sure, but did its job well enough. When six minutes have passed he slinks out through the back door. He sneaks along the wall and turns the corner just as Cas turns the corner on the other side. Dean startles and stops dead, heart leaping in his chest before he recognises Cas, who stops by the far corner. “You’re supposed to wait in the car.”

“Took you too long. Did the reconnaissance not go well?” Cas asks in a harsh whisper, staring at him, still wearing those aviators that give nothing away.

He’d said ten minutes, and been gone for less, but okay. “Better yet,” Dean answers and takes the flashdrive and the keycard out of his pocket and holds them up. “Got it.”

“Well done. Hand me those.”

“No way. Not until I get Sam back.”

“Don’t be difficult, Dean. We will honour our end of the deal. Just give me the items,” Cas argues impatiently.

Dean walks towards him but pockets the objects again. “No fucking way. Not without getting my brother first.”

Face blank, Cas sticks his hand inside his suit jacket, Dean sees a flash of the holster underneath and freezes. Time slows to a crawl in excruciating HD detail when Cas starts pulling his gun out. Dean’s heart jumps into overdrive, fuelling his bloodstream with rushing adrenaline. Dean reflexively goes for the gun he always, fucking _always_ , has stuffed in the back of his jeans.

It’s not there.

He gave it away.

Fear roots him to the spot, pulse rushing in his ears. It's a temporary misfire in his brain when his backbone reflex of self-defense is stumped. It doesn't last long before he realizes that he should throw himself to the side. 

By then it's too late. Cas moves wickedly fast, putting any old west gunslinger to shame. It's like watching a slow-mo with too few frames. Hand inside the suit jacket, gun half raised, gun aimed, shot fired…

There's a stirring of air by Dean's temple, a whizzing sound and a burn by his ear, followed by a heavy thump and a clatter behind him.

Dean whirls around, intending to run back and seek shelter behind the corner, only to recoil at the sight of the body on the ground, gun (also with a silencer) a bit away from the hand, neat bullet hole in the forehead, back of the head blown clear off. The body's wearing a suit but it's not the same man as inside. 

Dean turns and starts running towards Cas, legging it for the car. He passes Cas and sprints, mindless of whether he's being followed or not. Shit just got real. There's a dead body in the alley. They're fucked. They're fucking fucked!

The car's unlocked and he throws himself in the driver's seat, leaning over to open the passenger side door to allow for a hasty getaway, still going on backbone reflex. He reaches to turn the ignition and― 

“ _Sonnova bitch!_ ”

There's no fucking key!

Panic and fear are exchanged for―or overruled by―anger.

He leans over to the passenger side to look out of the open door. Cas is running towards the car, gun no longer in hand. “Gimme the keys, you fucking dimwitted nimrod!” 

To Dean's mind, Cas is fucking jogging, slowing down to stick his hand in his pocket. 

“Toss ‘em over, you blockheaded dunce!”

Cas does. It's a shitty throw, but Dean makes up for it, leaning further out to catch them before they land on the ground and slide under the car. Because that would have been juuuust peachy. 

Quickly, Dean shoves the key in the ignition and starts the car. He drives off as soon as Cas gets into the car, not waiting for the door to close. He puts on his seatbelt, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Dammit, Cas! The hell were you thinking? You incompetent featherbrain!”

Cas answers after he’s shut the door and belted himself. “He was mostly hidden behind your body. According to my calculations, I’d do the least damage to you, and the most to him, aiming where I did. The other options would have gotten him in the shoulder of the arm not wielding the gun, graze his hip, his arm, or his slacks. Either way, the risk of him shooting you was too great. Other options also included causing significant damage to you.”

Dean can’t believe he’s hearing this shit. “According to your―?! _Fuck_! You useless, mushbrained, _moron_. If you’re so good at calculating, you could have waited in the fucking car for ten minutes like you were supposed to!”

“I saved your life,” Cas states haughtily and turns his head to stare at Dean with those dead bug-eye glasses on.

“ _No_ ,” Dean argues. His heart is still beating frantically and he reminds himself not to floor it because a car speeding is just as incriminating as a person running, right? They might not have attracted attention, but screeching wheels certainly would. “You put my life in danger. If you hadn’t left the car, that guy would have turned the corner about the same time as I opened the car door. He would never have seen me. _And_ the car would have been ready to go. The fuck didn’t you stay in the car for? Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t understand ‘vernacular varieties of plebeians’,” Dean spits sarcastically. “Newsflash. When we _plebeians_ say ‘be back in ten’, we mean ten minutes. Should I have specified 600 seconds for your savant-brain to grasp? Or were you sitting here measuring time using a sundial and a flashlight? Fucking hell, you’re useless. You know what?” Dean keeps up his rant, switching on the blinkers and turning onto the freeway, finally getting to step on the gas. “You’re an amazing actor, Cas. You had me fooled. I totally thought you were some kind of professional. Turns out you’re a professional clown, wearing the wrong uniform. Fuck, I wish I would have gotten Luce as a getaway driver. I bet he, complete douche as he is, wouldn't have made that mistake. In fact, call him and put him on speaker. I want to talk to him.”

Cas takes up his phone and does what he's told. Dean keeps seeing Cas fire his gun on repeat. He's jarred. Shocked by how close to dying he'd been. If Cas hadn't been so mindblowingly fast to draw, Dean had been shot in the back. Dean tries not to think of that. Instead he clings to the fact that the now dead man would never have seen him if Cas hadn't stopped him in the alley.

Cas jabbers something in Russian when Luce answers.

“Is that Luce? Put him on speaker, Cas!”

Castiel’s eyebrows dip under the rim of his glasses as he scowls, but puts the phone on speaker. 

“Lucifer?” Dean wants clarified.

“The one and only, temp.”

“Is Sam with you? Is he alright? You haven’t hurt him, have you? We have a deal, remember?”

Lucifer chuckles. “Oh, I would never hurt Sam. Not in a way he doesn’t appreciate. He’s around. Did the recon go well? When do you think would be a good time to hit?”

Dean scowls at the road. “I’m damn good at what I do, okay? I cleaned the safe out already. _You_ on the other hand. Your brother is the worst getaway driver. The _worst_. How the fuck can someone so gorgeous and intelligent be so fucking dumb, Luce? Care to explain that to me? I’m supposed to do a job for you so why the fuck are you sabotaging it? _Fuck._ Next time, _you_ be the driver, okay? I don’t work with morons.” Since he had the objects they asked for, there was absolutely nothing stopping them from killing Sam. (And Dean, but that isn’t quite as important, okay?) And come to think of it, there wouldn’t be a next time. But he sort of forgets that in his anger.

“What did he do?” Lucifer asks tightly at the same time as Cas protests “I did not sabo―” 

Dean cuts him off. “He came prancing onto the site before my time limit was up. Nearly shooting me and leaving a dead body behind. Cops will be hot on all our heels now. On top of it all, he had the car keys in his pocket, slowing down our getaway. What’s the deal with that anyway? I thought you wanted me to do the job so you didn’t have to get mixed up in it?”

“Castiel, is this true?” Lucifer asks with a voice that he’d used anytime he tried to sound friendly when he wasn’t.

“Yes. I presumed your new baby was altricial. It was a miscalculation on my account.”

“You lamebrained nincompoop!” Luce spits and switches to a harangue in Russian. Cas tries to defend himself, but doesn’t get many words in sideways. Dean doesn’t have to understand the language to get that Cas is getting one helluva scolding. It calms Dean down somewhat. He’s still scared shitless. Cas’ action was a sharp reminder that they're hostages to the mercy of two raving lunatics in suits. And―mystery of all mysteries―currently the most sensible of the two is the madman who believes in fucking Fate. 

His ear still stings. Something tickles along the side of his neck. He scratches his neck. Beside him Cas looks stoic, tightly answering “Da” over and over to Lucifer’s now calmer sentences. He reminds faintly of Sam when Dean chews him out. Dean grabs the steering wheel again, sees blood on his fingers, and balks. “Sonnova bitch! Fuck! Shit! Fucking hell, Cas, what the fuck?” He peers at himself in the rearview mirror. Yup. He's bleeding alright. There's a neat crescent missing from the cartilage of his ear, showing exactly how close he'd been to be the one with his head blown to pieces. Dean turns his head to stare at Cas with shocked outrage. 

Cas stares right back at him. Pale mouth a thin line, cheeks red in what must be anger, looking for all the world as if he couldn't care less. 

“I knew you wanted me, Cas, but that doesn't give you the right to notch my ear like a free-ranging ox.”

“Maybe you should keep your eyes on the road,” Cas suggests cooly.

Dean keeps staring at him. He sees the road just fine in his peripheral sight, thank you. And if Cas doesn't give a shit if he lives or dies then Sam's as good as dead and Dean's gonna seal Castiel’s fate as well. Fate. _Hah_. Both of them can just shove it!

“Narrate current situation for me, probie,” Luce bids tensely. 

Dean looks back on the road. “Your brother shot my ear off and the current trust issues we're having about _my_ brother's safety has me considering turning the car into oncoming traffic. How's _that_ for a narration?”

Lucifer lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Cool your jets, maverick. I'm turning on the speaker. And remember the nature of our arrangement. Hold on… _Sammy!_ ”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Dean's on the phone.”

_Sammy? Yes, **Sir?** Since when does Sam let strangers call him Sammy? Or answer with Sir for that matter?_

“Hi, Dean!” Sam’s excited voice is a balm to Dean’s frayed nerves.

“Heya, Sammy. Everything’s alright? No flies biting your ankles?”

Sam chuckles. “No. If they were, I’d piss on them.” He’s in good health. They have a bunch of coded messages, most to convey all clear, stay back, or in need of help. Sadly none for ‘you’re being held hostage and are in grave danger.’ Oh, they have one for the opposite. But Dean can’t use it, because Sam would get distressed and most likely turn to the devil himself for help to save Dean from the ‘unknown’ danger. “Guess what, Dean? Luce has some really brilliant ideas of how we can get Monroe Industries to close the factory that pollutes the river down by Bertie’s. And we went by the forest the Garrison started to cut down, and sabotaged _all_ their machinery! Why haven’t you introduced us before? Lucifer is _amazing_. He’s so smooth. He just waltzed right in as if he...” Sam gushes, giving an excited retelling of their adventures.

There’s the plague, AIDS, getting bit by bullet ants, famine, bushfires, and all kinds of horrible shit. None of which are quite as bad as hearing Sam enthusiastically swoon over Lucifer.

No wonder Dean mistakes the gagging noise to be his own, right? Until he hears it again and throws a glance at Cas, seeing him sulking with a grossed out pout. Cas isn’t all too keen on hearing how awesome his big brother is after getting a scolding for his own fuck up. Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. That’s great, Sam. Where are you now?”

“We’re shopping for clothes in the mall just beside Blue Beds motel.”

Dean blinks. “Uh…? _Why?_ ”

Lucifer answers, reminding Dean that they’re all on speaker. “Because such handsome specimen like you two are, can do better than look like you’ve rolled around in the mud. Don’t worry, potterer. It’s my treat. A perk, if you will.” His voice turns faintly disgusted. “Although, I don’t understand your obsession with plaid.”

Dean wants to bang his head against the steering wheel and yell at Sam not to― not to what? Take candy from the bad man? Fuck that. As much as it irks Dean, this is a good thing. If Luce spends money on them, he might be more inclined to keep them alive. Sam should take _all_ the candy! Rob the fucker blind! “Yeah? Could you get me a new jacket while you’re at it?” Blood is a hassle to wash off, and he’s pretty certain his ear’s messed up the one he’s wearing.

“It will be taken care of,” Luce promises.

“How did the recon go?” Sam asks.

“Screw recon. I got the stuff already.”

“Hah! Told you, Sir. My brother knows his shit. You owe me a Texas penny,” Sam says smugly, Lucifer chuckling in response. Sam’s attention goes back to Dean, noticeable by his inflections. “Did it go well?”

No, it fucking didn’t. But this is what Luce meant, reminding him of their agreement before putting Sam on speaker. At least Sam got a 100 dollar, betting on Dean doing the job rather than scoping it out. “Yeah. We had a minor hiccup and I got a small scratch on the ear, but nothing serious. Cas took care of it. See you back at the motel, alright?” Dean puts on a fake smile, trying to make his voice sound convincing and ending the conversation before he spills the beans.

“Will do. See ya, jerk.”

“Bitch.”

After the calls been disconnected Dean feels slightly better. He tries to calm down. This whole circus will soon be over, right? He didn’t get his head blown off, so that’s a plus. And he gets to drive. He’s a damn fine driver, okay? All isn’t lost. Nevermind the ensuing manhunt that will come from leaving a corpse behind. They’ll be fine. Really.

Fuck.

Dean switches on the blinkers to change lane to get off the freeway.

“Where are you going?”

“We’re switching cars and torching this one. Someone might have seen us. I ain’t going down for murder if I can help it.”

“There won’t be an investigation. They’ll send a cleaner for Petrov,” Cas drones.

“Petr― You _knew_ him? The guy you shot?”

“Yes.” 

Dean waits for an explanation, but Cas remains quiet, just sitting there, staring at him. Looking hot and stone-faced with his damned aviators.

_That settles it. I’m not bottoming for him. Fucking bastard._

And isn’t that just peachy? Of all the thoughts to have right now, boning the enemy should _not_ have been one of them!


	6. LOVE’S FOOL

* * *

**LOVE’S FOOL**

* * *

“Will you stop staring? It’s creepy.” 

Cas averts his gaze.

For about two seconds. 

Then his face is drawn in Dean's direction again as if he had a magnet in his head. His expression is pinched, cheeks red and lips compressed. He looks pissed - accusing. 

Dean overrode Cas’ assurance that they didn't need to switch car, and Dean's sure that's what he's pissed about. He hadn't said a word since Dean stole a new car and torched the other to burn the evidence. Dean had stolen a car with a T-shirt lying inside, used his own shirt to clean up the blood and wound, then burned his shirt and jacket and replaced it with the stolen shirt. Yeah, so now he's stuck in a baby blue, teddybear tee that could have been painted on him, showing juuust a bit of belly. Like that wasn't bad enough. It has a print on and apparently Dean ‘Wuvs hugs’.

_Shut up. I'm adorable_. Yeah, he's rocking it. Cas _should_ be staring. Not looking so pissy, though. “You're doing it again,” Dean points out.

Cas doesn't look away this time, his cheeks just turn a shade darker in that way that isn't endearing at all. It _isn't_ , okay? Damnit!

His ear is aching dully. It's not so bad. If Dean was one of those self-molesting idiots that were into piercings and stuff like that, (which he totally isn't) he'd say that the missing crescent in his ear looks rad. He isn't that kind of nutter, okay? He's long since learned that you get bruised and battered by life as it is, and the more pieces you get to keep, the better. He's already pierced in his other ear by way of a freak accident when he was 20 and the floor in a dilapidated building gave way. He'd landed in a pile of debris, got a gash in his side and a wire through his earlobe. There's no way he'll admit it, but sometimes he's put a ring in the small hole in his ear, looking at himself in the mirror. Sam would have a field day if he knew. Dean might have let slip that he thinks earrings look cool and Sam had given him new ridiculous lady earrings every day for a month. Sam's a fucking klepto, that's what he is. He doesn’t need to know Dean likes it or he’d end up owning a dragon’s hoard of earrings.

“I wish to apologize,” Cas suddenly drones in that monotone rumble of his. “I'm never assigned to wait in the car. My specialities have me going in, supported by expendables.”

“Expendables,” Dean states flatly. 

“Yes.”

“Like me?”

Cas answers a beat too late. “Like Petrov.”

“Like me,” Dean confirms. 

“I went after you out of concern for your safety.”

“The hell you did.”

“Yes, I did. ...Mostly. Either way, I apologize for causing damage to your ear.”

Cas still looks pissy and with his monotone way of speaking it's impossible to gauge his sincerity. His aviators give nothing away.

Dean feels his temper flare. He opens the window on the driver's side. Then his hand shoots out to snatch the aviators right off of Castiel’s perfect face and throw them out of the window. He opens his mouth to tell Cas to― 

_Fuck. Fucking hell! Fuck me!_

Turns out Cas wears sunglasses to protect the world from mournful puppy eyes so lethal even Sammy is hard pressed to rival them. They're a weapon of mass destruction. The expression that Cas was hiding isn't anger. It just looked like it when the eyes and their surrounding muscles were hidden. It's regret and shame. If dark blue oceans can look shameful, that is. _Damn._

Dean isn't drowning in bad conscience from the onslaught of this previously hidden superpower of Castiel’s. He _isn't,_ okay? Just because the guy saved his life doesn't mean he's going to forgive Cas for putting him in jeopardy. _Or_ suddenly forget that Sam is held hostage to get Dean to work for them. Just because they're buying dinner and new clothes and help Sam sabotage the Garrison’s deforestation site, doesn't mean they're all chummy now. 

Jesus, what do these guys want anyway? They can't actually be serious about letting Sam and Dean go afterwards?

Can they?

Dean squeezes the steering wheel in frustration. Extending a peace laurel is physically painful, but the way Cas looks... “Hey so… thanks for saving my life back there, Cas. I mean, you fucked up, but you made up for it, okay?”

Dean stares ahead at the road, but he can see Cas relax somewhat out of the corner of his eye. “You're welcome, Dean.”

Dean grits his teeth. That’s just grand. Cas makes it sound like Dean’s grovelling and he himself is blameless. “You did wrong by leaving the car, you get that, right?”

Castiel's expression turns sulky and he finally stops staring at Dean. “Yes. Luce did not allow for any evasion of culpability.”

“If you were so concerned about my safety, you could have just given me my gun, you know?”

“I'm concerned about my own safety too,” Cas deadpans dryly. 

Dean barks out a laugh. “Dude. Luce has his dirty paws on my brother and I have no clue where they are. You honestly think I'm going to act up?”

Cas tilts his head and looks at Dean with a confused squint. “Forgive my confusion, but did you not establish that Sam would never consent to carnal contingency from my brother?”

Dean sputters. “Figure of speech! Damnit, Cas. Don't even talk about it. I don't want to imagine your douchewad big bro groping mine, okay?”

“I see.”

Better switch subject. If Sam had shown any previous inclination towards older men in suits, Dean would be worried right now. But then again, if there’s something dirty going on you don’t call player two ‘Sir’. Yeah, no. Better not think about it. “So. You knew Petrov, huh?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“It's not of import.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he gruffs in a voice that clearly conveys how _not_ fine it is. Lucifer had been much more forthcoming about things. Come to think of it, no, he hadn’t. Just more chatty. Whatever. He turns his head to meet Cas’ gaze and once again he’s drowning in it. It’s like the guy has too many feelings inside, and is imprisoned in a body lacking ability to communicate them. The monotone voice that rumbles lowly like it’s made for phone sex, the stiff posture that looks proud and arrogant until you see his eyes. Dean’s so screwed. So, so screwed.

Dean reaches out to pat Cas on the thigh reassuringly (What? _Why?_ ) then opens the glove compartment and starts rummaging around.

“Dean. What are you doing?” Cas frowns, eyes disconcerted.

Dean’s lucky, finding what he was hoping to find. A pair of sunglasses. He pulls them out. “Here. Put these on.”

Cas grunts and takes them. “I fail to see what was wrong with my old ones,” he complains but nevertheless puts them on with a dissatisfied twist to his lips. 

Dean looks at him and giggles. They’ve got purple rims with winged points - the kind old ladies with no taste wear. Instead of looking at twin mirror images of yourself you can actually see Cas’ eyes faintly through the dark glass. “Nothing. I was just throwing a bitch fit. You don’t like your new ones? Don’t wear them.” He gives Cas a shiteating grin and winks.

Cas gives him a dark look but doesn’t remove the sunshades. Possibly because he’s aware that he has a poker _face_ but eyes that bleed emotions all over the place.

* * *

**9 years ago…**

Living in a school isn’t half bad. Sam’s young enough to move around there as if he belongs, during the daytime. He spends a lot of time in the school library while Dean’s out looking for work. The school cafeteria provides them with food and drink. There’s a washer and dryer in the room beside the janitor’s office. Showers to keep clean. Hell, Sam even manages to weasel his way into a few classes and makes friends. The school is locked by 9 PM every night and as long as Dean gets in before that everything is fine. He has to be away during daytime since his presence is more conspicuous - too old to be a student, too young to be a parent or teacher. Sam eats during the day too. Dean’s not quite sure how he does it. He suspects Sam steals money for the cafeteria, but he could be mooching off of his new friends too. Dean’s just happy Sam isn’t suffering as badly as Dean is. Sam even meets a perky blond girl to smooch. 

“Heya, Sammy! What’s u― Dude, what’s wrong?” Dean started greeting Sam chipperly and quickly changes to worry when he sees Sam’s posture and face where he’s curled up, hugging his own knees behind the boiler.

“Nothing.”

“Screw that.” Dean crouches down in front of Sam and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Talk to me, man. I can see something’s happened.”

Sam takes a deep breath. “Me and Jess ran into her parents. She waved me off as if I was nobody. Then she said that she likes me an’ all, but that she thought I understood that we’re just a temporary thing. That I should get that she can’t introduce me to her parents as a boyfriend since I’m really just a bum.”

“Shit. That’s rough. I’m sorry, Sammy.”

“Yeah… me too. Doesn’t matter. I just wanted to bone her anyway,” Sam lies. Not that Sam has done any boning yet. But Sam isn’t like that. Dean was sixteen when he lost his virginity. For him, it was a matter of time. Girls, guys, non-binary pals. He drooled over anyone giving him the time of day, and back in school, quite a few did. He played football, baseball, ran three track events - sprint, middle distance, and hurdles. He did well in class. Taking care of Sam while dad worked stopped him from partying or hanging out with friends much after school, but Sam had his extracurriculars too. Theater and book clubs and whatever. None of them had been ‘popular’, ranking more in the middle, but they hadn’t been picked on, and honestly? Both of them were too focused on what they wanted to be when they grew up, putting too much effort into that to get swept up in cliques and drama. None of them would ever have been blown off because of lack of status.

That's changed, apparently. “You can do better. She ain’t that pretty anyway,” Dean plays along. Jessica is gorgeous for a 14-year-old. Dean wouldn't want to do someone that young but he isn't blind. 

“She can go burn, for all I care. Did you find work?”

Dean shakes his head. “It's been the same thing over and over. The places that seem ready to hire me all cop out. ‘We're sorry. We need your address and phone number. We can't hire people without their papers in order.’ Basically, I'm fucked. And not in a good way.”

Sam mulls this over. Or so Dean thinks. But then Sam looks up with a curious expression. “Is it really good? Like, have you tried?”

“Dude. What do you think I'm doing all day? I can't even get a job at McDonald's!”

“No. I mean, um…” Sam looks down at his knees, flustered all the sudden. “Being fucked in, uh, a good way? Is it really good? Doesn't it hurt?”

Oh. _Oooh._

“Jeez, Sammy. We're living rough and _that's_ what you worry about?”

“I'm just curious. It's not like I can ask dad about it,” Sam snipes and curls up more tightly, sulking. 

It twists Dean's heart painfully. He misses dad a lot. He's read half of the journal. He couldn't take more. Not yet. Sam plows through it several times a week, starting over as soon as he finishes it. Dean doesn't understand how he does it. It's fucking painful. The image it paints of mom and the level of heartbreak dad suffered because of her… Dean can't handle it. There was a part of it where dad reminisces about his lost love he had before he met mom. When he was in the Marines still, he had a _boyfriend_. A Bill Harvelle, that went home to get married to a woman. Who knew, right?

Dean sits down beside Sam and picks at his sleeve. “I, uh, I've never, uh… with a guy,” he admits. 

Sam perks up, curious again. “Really? What about Sean, or Jeremy? I thought you guys…?”

Dean chuckles. “BJ’s and handjobs, Sammy. Which are awesome if you haven't tried it yet, by the way. But you know, I haven't exactly been around…”

“But all the girls in school? I saw how they acted around you.”

Dean rubs his neck, feeling it heat up. His little bro must think he's some awesome Casanova or something. He _wants_ to be. If nothing else, so Sam will look up to him. “Yeah, no. A few. I didn't have all that much time for girls.”

“Huh.” Sam leans his head on Dean's shoulder. “I think we'll have to move soon. I overheard a staff meeting. Our presence here has been noted. They're talking about hiring a night guard and put up cameras indoors to stop the food thefts and find out who’s doing it.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah… I guess the breakup with Jess was well timed.”

* * *

That meant they needed money again. Dean almost got caught the first time he stole a wallet out of someone's back pocket. He'd never been so grateful for being a fast runner. Sam looted the lockers in school before they moved on. It's summer now so living rough isn't quite as bad. It's almost scary how fast shame and a guilty conscience die in the face of necessity. Sam's approval helps too. Their next ‘permanent’ living arrangement (which is anything longer than a week) is a car they steal from the airport. Dean's gets fairly good at picking pockets. He pickpockets the car keys from a family who parks at the long-term parking, toting a lot of bags as if they're going to be away for weeks. 

In the glove compartment, Dean finds a gun, that opens up a range of new options. Once upon a time, he would never have been able to consider pointing a gun at a human. He knows how to handle a gun. Dad was an ex-Marine and had shown the both of them how. But shooting at cans in the forest is one thing, pulling a gun at a store clerk something else entirely. Still, Dean considers it.

That night they park behind a junkyard to sleep. Dean climbs into the back seat and sits beside Sam to eat food bought with stolen money. (He can never decide which is best―steal food or steal money to buy it.) He leans against Sam, who’s reading the journal while he munches organic greenery. Dean looks at the open spread of the journal, reading along.

“`...It’s so much worse than I thought. Mary came clean yesterday. In an effort to pay off the debt she’d racked up before her rehab, she took a job as a mule. My wife, a drug mule! I wish she would talk things through with me. We could solve this together if she’d just talk. Instead, she’s made things worse. On her way back she stopped at a casino, thinking to double her earnings, and gambled away not only her cut, but the money of her employer. She admitted that she was high when she got the idea. I don’t know what to do...`

Dean cringes inwardly. Mom had been a criminal too. Not at first. The first couple of pages dad just gushed over the amazing woman he’d met. They’d married within three months, since mom was all in, non-stop, and dad was too in love to question why. Her drug abuse and the problems she had didn’t start to be apparent to dad until after they were married. Dad tried to leave her once. Dean remembers the occasion. Dad said they were going to visit friends. He packed bags and took little baby Sam, and Dean, 4 years old then, with him in the car. Dean can’t remember mom being present. According to the journal, she’d been on a bender and dad had planned to take them to the Harvelles to ask for help to get away. Dad wanted to save Sam and Dean and feared he couldn’t stay away himself because he loved Mary too much. Halfway there he lost his nerve and turned the car around. “Love sucks. I’m never gonna fall in love. It makes you stupid, forgiving shit that can’t be forgiven. I’m never gonna be love struck enough to play along with anyone doing stupid shit like mom did,” Dean grumps.

“I think it’s romantic,” Sam muses. 

“You’re kidding, right? Mom went in and out of rehab, committed dangerous crimes that put us all in jeopardy, and dad _stayed_ like a fucking idiot. She racked up debts that were sky high and he was the one who had to pay. Her dealings were what got us into this mess.”

“Still. I wish dad would have talked to us. Just like he wanted mom to talk. He loved us all so much more than I could ever have guessed. I wish I meet someone as loyal as dad to fall in love with. He’d do anything for her. For _us_. I never got that. I want my girlfriend or boyfriend to be like that too.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot. I want a calm, stable partner, with their own apartment and car, a steady job, who doesn’t get up to shit. Reliable. Predictable. And good in bed.”

Sam scoffs and turns the page…

* * *

**Present day…**

Dean turns into the gas station and parks by a pump. “Alright, hotshot. Fill this baby up. Then come inside. I’m gonna get some snacks and drinks and you’re gonna pay for it.” He pats Cas on the thigh. He’s been doing that a lot. He should stop. But Cas tenses up and blushes anytime he does it. It’s kinda addicting.

“As you will,” Cas answers and gets out of the car along with Dean, going for the pump.

Dean whistles while he goes inside. He takes a basket and fills it with snacks and a couple of BLT sandwiches.

The cashier is a man in his thirties and he eyes Dean suspiciously as Dean moves around in the store. The guy would be good looking if he didn’t look so bitter. Dean gives him a big smile and a wink. “I’m rocking this shirt, and you know it,” he jests, internally awkward about his belly showing. The guy sneers, not easily charmed.

_Fuck you too, asshole._

Dean ignores him in favour of loading the basket with Pepsi Max and beer. He puts in a couple of smoothies too for Sam’s benefit. You never know.

He spots Cas walking into the store and his heart does a strange double flip. It’s insane how good Cas looks when he strolls casually. Ridiculous glasses aside, Cas moves gracefully, with the confidence of someone who knows he’s superior. Dean can’t tell what the hell is wrong with him to make him lose all concepts by looking at Cas walking. The guy shot off a piece of his ear, for crying out loud! Dean should still be fuming. Yet here he is, drooling. A dose of puppy eyes and all was forgotten. _Get a grip._ “Yo, Mr. Knockout, you want anything particular?”

“Thank you, but I trust your judgement in the nutrition department,” Cas answers and heads for the register.

Dean chuckles and follows him. “Whelp. If it’s nutrition you’re after, I’m not your man.”

“As long as it isn’t vegan, I’m certain it will be more than satisfactory,” Cas states matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, no. It isn’t. Hey, look! They’ve got sunglasses.” Dean puts the basket by the register and takes a pair of sunglasses from the display. “Come here and try these on.”

Cas takes off the pair he’s wearing and obliges. Dean turns to him and reaches out to put the glasses on Cas with a small smile. Sure, he could have _handed_ them to Cas, but what would be the fun in that? Besides, Cas is surprisingly willing to be bossed around. Maybe he’s still feeling bad. Shit, but the fucker smells as good as he looks. 

The fact that he can smell Cas probably means he’s standing too close.

“Looking good there, chief. Try these too.” Dean exchanges the pair for another and makes a growling sound. “Hell yeah. I bet you’ll look good in anything.”

Cas’ lips curve in a self-satisfied smirk, all while his cheeks colour. Fuck. Dean could spend a lifetime trying out anything that will make Castiel blush. He feels like it could be his calling in life. “Then we’ll purchase these too. Maybe you should try on a pair for yourself? How about these?” Cas reaches for a pair and holds them up for Dean to take.

“You’re not expecting me to put them on myself, now are you, tiger?” Dean challenges with a lopsided smirk.

“I see. You’re being flirtatious. Then no. I don’t.” Cas takes a step closer and carefully puts on a pair of Oakley's on Dean. Yeah, so Cas chose something from the fuckboy starter pack for him. Who cares? Cas likes the look of him, Dean can tell by the way Cas’ lips curve in satisfaction. “These look very alluring on you,” Cas offers, making moronic butterflies flap around in Dean’s belly.

“You two are gross! Get your disgusting faggot ass out of here and take your boy toy with you,” the cashier interrupts angrily. Dean’s temper flares, but Cas beats him too it, speaking before Dean.

“He’s neither a boy, nor an entertainment article,” Cas answers, turning his head towards the hostile cashier and slipping a hand around Dean’s waist in a surprisingly protective gesture. “But we’ll pay and vacate the premise nevertheless.”

“No, you’re not. It’s my right to deny service to anyone, and I don’t want your tainted homosexual money. You’re not buying anything in this store, now fuck off,” the bitter cashier insists.

“Mh. That’s unfortunate,” Cas drones regretfully. Dean, looking at the side of his face can see his eyes go dark behind the sunshades. The cashier can’t see it, doesn’t get the warning. Not that it would have made a difference. Cas pulls his gun and shoots between one breath and another. The cashier crumbles and disappears behind the counter with a thud.

“ _Christ!_ Jeezus fuck! Damnit, Cas!” Dean’s heart’s racing in shock. “You can’t go around shooting people like that!”

“I assure you, I’m quite capable.”

Dean’s laughter might be a slight bit hysterical. Just a tad. “Yeah, no, I noticed. But this is the kind of shit that will end us up in the slammer for life!”

“Nonsense. I told you, I don’t usually get left in the car. Man the register while I erase the traces of our presence.” Cas steps away from Dean and―cool as day―walks around to the other side of the counter. Dean stares, numb and giddy with nerves all at once. From here you can neither see the dead body nor what Cas is doing when he crouches down. When he stands up he’s holding something. It’s a poster. He uses tape to put it over the blood spray and the bullet hole in the wall. “This should keep people from noticing if they come inside while I work. Now come around here and man the register. I’ll go eradicate the security footage. Don’t step in the blood and put these on.” Cas hands Dean a pair of plastic gloves when he finally jars himself into action. Cas has taken the cashier’s keys and put a plastic bag over him. Someone standing on the other side will be hard-pressed to see or grasp what they’re seeing.

That doesn’t stop Dean from being a scared bundle of nerves when he takes his place behind the counter and Cas disappears into the staff room.

As soon as Cas is out of sight, though, Dean bends down to scour the shelves under the counter. He’s in luck and finds a gun. He puts it in the back of his jeans. He finds a jacket with the gas station logo on a hook behind him and puts it on. He opens the register intending to pocket all the money, but a car turns into the gas station and stops by a pump. _Better wait until it’s time to leave. If I have to give out change it would seem suspicious if the register’s empty._

* * *

Time seems to crawl. There’s a monitor displaying the camera feeds and it went dark within minutes of Cas’ disappearance. Since then Dean has seen Cas move about both outside and in the store, but now it’s been fifteen minutes since Cas shot the guy. Dean has served five customers since. _Five_. A charming smile on his lips, adrenaline in his veins, and pulse thundering in his ears. 

“Why are you wearing gloves?” The current customer asks, he’s a middle-aged man who looks like he could use some sleep.

Dean points with his thumb to the hot dog case. “Handling food.”

“Ah, of course.”

“Yeah. You never know with gas station hot dogs. They’re full of germs. Don’t want to risk catching something,” Dean jokes and winks.

The man lets out a surprised laugh. “Too true. I think I’m going to brave one of them, though.”

“Yes, sir. Hot dog coming right up.”

He makes a hot dog for the customer, then takes the payment, wishing the man a good day. The man is still smiling when he leaves.

Cas finally comes back. “I’m done. You ready to go now?” he asks and grabs the basket with their wares.

“Fucking finally. What took you so long?” Dean retorts, opens the register and pockets the money.

“I wiped our car clean of fingerprints and destroyed further evidence. We’re switching cars.”

“We’re just gonna leave Mr. Sunshine down here like this?”

“Yes. There’s nothing more to tie us to the crime scene except the bullet. Follow me.”

Dean follows Cas out the back to the parking lot where they keep the rental cars. All the license plates have been removed except on one car. Cas walks up to it, puts their wares in the back and gets in on the passenger side up front. Dean sees all the license plates on the floor of the car as he passes to get in, as well a ledger saying ‘Rental car registry’.

“Huh,” Dean says as he slides inside behind the wheel. The key’s in the ignition this time. “Did you erase the computerised register of cars too?” If nobody knew what car is missing they can’t be on the lookout for it.

“Yes. I wiped the hard drive on all their computers. An employee might still remember the license plate numbers, but the next shift starts in seven hours and I removed every note with phone numbers I could find, so if the police swing by it will take some time for them to track people down. Now, hand me the gun.” Cas holds out his hand demandingly. Dean draws breath to protest and say he doesn’t have one but Cas cuts him off. “I saw you take it.”

“Fuck sake.” Dean hands it over with a dark glare. “I'm not going to shoot you.”

Cas smirks and puts the gun somewhere at his back. “Of course not. That would require a gun.”

Dean huffs, half in amusement, half in annoyance, and starts the car. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Gimme a Snickers, will ya, Capone.” He drives out of the parking lot and onto the highway. He can't shake the thrilled, giddy feeling. It makes no sense. Cas has dropped two bodies this far. They're on a fast track to doom and still, Dean has to watch himself not to giggle in asinine delight. 

“Castiel,” Cas helpfully corrects while reaching back to take a Snickers out of the shopping basket with their loot. He opens it and hands it over. Dean bites off a big chunk. Adrenaline burns through blood sugar like fire through a grass field during a drought. “My brother is right about you. Normally I don't approve of his choice of disciples. Yet I find myself _quite_ impressed by your performance back there,” Cas offers and takes a chocolate bar for himself. 

“My performance? Dude. In case you didn't notice, you were the one to put on a show,” Dean sniggers. 

“I disagree. I've worked with many who claim to be professional, yet whose nerves would not hold up to act casual or unthreatening while standing over a corpse. You’re an accomplished inveigler.”

Dean grins, belly doing a flip-flop at the praise. “My nerves were all over the place. But it ain't my first rodeo. Though I gotta tell you, I wasn't so cool about it the first time I had to shoot someone.”

“So you have killed?”

“Yeah… only in defense. First time was when a guy tried robbing Sam at gunpoint. I was 20 years old.”

“I was 13. Rite of passage. Family tradition.”

“ _Jeezus_. No wonder you're so quick on the draw.”

“No, that comes from relentless practice.”

Dean doesn't giggle. He swears he doesn't. It's a very manly snigger that comes out, okay? Besides, what else can he do? Cas isn't used to wait in the car because he's used to going in and dominate like a boss. That much is clear. Dean can put two and two together. The yammering in Russian, the offhanded murder, the suits and guns… Cas and Luce aren't corporate spies, they're mafia of some sort. Mafia that are currently turning traitors to their own. ‘T’s gotta be, right? Cas said he knew Petrov. As such, Dean guesses they worked together. No wonder they wanted Dean to do their dirty work for them! Dean's not sure what the connection they have to the Garrison. Either way, it's all Dean can do not to laugh hysterically. (Either that, or cry.)

He steals a couple of glances at the waistcoat clad, hotter than hell gangster by his side while he finishes the Snickers. The insane butterflies in his belly must be caused by fear and nerves, right? Not that he currently feels nervous, but the alternative would be stupid. He's not that dumb. He _isn't_. “Tell me, Gunslinger, why did you shoot the cashier?”

“He insulted you. And you craved pabulum, which he denied you,” Cas states as if it was plain as day.

“We could have thrown a couple of insults and stolen the basket, but okay.” What Cas had done was a bit like using a nuke to open a coconut. Dean grins. 

“Are you criticizing me? I can't gauge your intentions when your words and expression don't correlate.”

“Nah. We're good, babe. You were pretty awesome in there.”

Cas puts his half-eaten chocolate bar on the dashboard and places his hands on his thighs, looking at his lap with a private smile. He's quiet for a while, cheeks getting rosy. He swallows. “I am quite inflamed. What we partook in back there, um, got my blood flowing. May I propose that we osculate to celebrate a swifter getaway?”

Dean throws his head back laughing. Cas is simply hilarious! When he collects himself somewhat Cas is back to looking sulky. Dean turns the car to the side of the road, still giggling. He stops the car with the warning blinkers on. “ _Man_. Who actually talks like that?” Really, who says _osculate_ instead of kiss? Cas. That's who. 

“There's no need to stop the car to heckle me, Dean. I'm sure you're perfectly adept at it while driving,” Cas snipes haughtily. 

“True. But I can't make out and drive at the same time,” Dean answers with a lopsided smirk.

Cas face snaps around to look at him so fast it's funny. Eyebrows shooting upward in surprise. 

“That's right, Bugsy. You heard me.” Dean reaches out to pluck the sunglasses off of Cas and is rewarded by eyes looking like a deer in the headlights. “Unless you were just joking?” Fuck but he loves Cas’ big expressive eyes.

“No.”

“Good. Because I'm going to kiss you now.” 

Cas almost looks afraid, like he’s prey, when Dean leans in. Yet he licks his lips and meets Dean halfway. Dean had started to entertain thoughts that maybe the guy was a virgin. _That_ is swiftly debunked after the first soft touch of lips. Cas switches from scared prey to avaricious predator in the blink of an eye. He grabs Dean by the collar in a (strong!) grip and pulls him halfway onto his lap. He opens his mouth to let Dean in without any hesitation. It might be the best kiss of Dean’s life! Wherever Cas touches goosebumps rise and electricity zings. Nails scrape along Dean’s neck, fingers twist and tug his hair. Cas’ kiss is the perfect mix of soft lips, playful tongue, and nipping teeth. His taste is perfect. His scent is perfect. _He_ is perfect. This is what it feels like to find God, Dean’s sure, possibly better. 

They part, panting, simply to stare at each other for a beat in awe-slash-hunger. Then they’re back to kissing, nipping, feeling, tasting. Dean’s so swept up in it, it takes a moment for him to remember that he actually had an ulterior motive to accept Cas’ suggestion. He forces his mind to register other things than just the man as his hands wander. Two (!) holsters―one under each armpit―another one, smaller, in the back, clipped on his belt, the gun Dean had taken from the gas station also pushed into the back of his belt. Wallet, pocket watch (who uses pocket watches anymore?). What might be a butterfly knife or a pop-up, a phone… Dean should get an award for being able to focus enough to do what he intended to. It’s not helped along by how hard he’s getting, how demanding and eager Cas is, or how the butterflies in his belly decided to multiply and colonize every corner of his body. And the eager little sounds Cas makes. _Fuck_ , the sounds! Dean’s melting like a snowcone in Death Valley.

Dean finally tears himself away to his own seat, panting harshly. Cas makes a vexed sound and tries to pull him back. Dean resists with a lopsided smirk, displaying confidence that is all fake. “Nu-uh-uh. You want more of where that came from, you gotta make me want it, Romeo.”

“Tssk. You want it as much as I do.”

“That’s not the point, sweetheart. Gotta seduce me. Just sayin’. I’m not that kinda gal,” Dean grins.

He totally _is_ that kinda gal. But that’s not the point either. Heh.

Cas slouches back in his seat with a pout. He looks completely debauched, hair a mess, lips swollen and cherry red, clothes rumpled. Who’d known that Mr. Rolling-In-It could look even more gorgeous.

Dean leans back in his seat and starts the car. Cas may be a gangster, but he's still to learn that you shouldn't make out with a master pickpocket. Alright, so Dean had intended to disarm him fully, and that went down the drain. But he got away with the wallet, the watch, and both the guns at Cas’ back, all squirrelled into his jacket while they made out. That’s gotta count for something, right? At least now Dean's armed, and Cas none the wiser.

He pulls into traffic, trying hard to ignore both his erection and the temptation beside him, and starts singing. “ _I’m on the hiiiighway to Hell! On the hiiighway…_ ”

* * *


	7. GHOSTS OF PAST FUTURES

* * *

**GHOSTS OF PAST FUTURES**

* * *

“So this is your office?” Dean asks, sitting in a visitor’s chair while Cas taps away on a computer in the small office lying in the business district. It’s not the Garrison’s HQ. Instead, it’s one of those high rises where loads of small corporates cram in, renting a few rooms or sharing space in open cubicle landscapes. The sign on the door they’d entered said Novak Accounting.

“Not officially, no.” Cas is wickedly fast, smattering away on the keyboard.

Dean’s heart is racing and won’t stop. He’d used the bathroom when they entered the building, checking Cas’ wallet, intending to put it back without Cas noticing. He _had_ , after pilfering one of several credit cards. But what has his heart racing is the name on Cas’ ID. ‘Castiel Dmitri Angelus’. As in ‘Raphael Angelus’, the bastard from the Garrison that came to evict the Winchesters from their home. Part of Dean is seething with hatred, stumped what to do with these feelings because _damn_. If Cas is a mobster, then so was Raphael, and then the Garrison is probably a front or a part of the crime family’s business. It would explain why the Garrison allowed mom to take a loan to cover her debts. Hell, they might have been the ones to have hired her to traffic drugs and money. It might have been their money mom gambled away. The interest on the loan had been insane. It all adds up.

Dean reminds himself that Cas and Luce are hitting the Garrison, were, even before Dean got mixed up in it. They’re guilty by association, sure, but they were both too young to be personally responsible for the suffering the Winchester went through. According to Cas’ ID, he’s 32, 5 years older than Dean. He’d only been 15 when mom died. Lucifer, though… “How old is Luce?”

“Is it important?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Cas never looks away from the computer screen.

“Dude. He dubbed me his new Neopet, or whatever. I’ve got the right to know.” Not really, but whatever.

“35.”

So Lucifer might have been responsible. He was 18 when mom died. The two of them had been 23 and 26 when dad died. They _could_ be responsible. They could have shot dad. _Fuck_. ‘Robbery gone wrong’ sounds less and less plausible. And Dean’s starting to get attached. “Are you really brothers, or more like brothers-in-arms?”

“As unlike as we are in looks, we’ve got the same pedigree.”

“Huh.” The question is whether or not the fact that the two mobsters are going against their organization, is exculpatory or not. Dean doesn't know their aim or motive. Maybe it's a coup to gain the ruling power? Cas talked about ‘expendables’, indicating that he isn't one. He defers to Lucifer. That puts them higher up in the hierarchy. “So why do you want to rob the Garrison?”

“Need to know basis.”

Dean would argue that he needs to know, but Cas is good at not answering questions. Compared to before they made out, Cas is particularly verbose.

“Come around and tell me what you think,” Cas suddenly orders and waves for him to come look at the computer screen. 

Dean gets to his feet and comes around the desk to look. Cas is working on their IDs, currently with the Driver’s licenses. Dean bends down behind Cas, resting his chin on Cas’ shoulder and bracketing him with his arms. He blinks at the two computerised versions of the IDs on the screen. ‘Jack Austin Dean Smith’ and ‘Tristan Samuel Wesson’. “Smith and _Wesson_?” Dean sniggers.

“Yes. It’s a joke, based on your real name,” Cas explains.

Dean laughs. “I got that, numbnuts. I like it. ‘S kinda shows how much more awesome Sam and I are when we’re together. You done good, babe,” he says and places a kiss on Cas’ temple before he pushes himself away to go slouch over the guest chair again, hooking a leg over the armrest. Cas is back to being a blushing fool with a private smile. Dean tries not to giggle and reminds himself that Cas is ‘ _The **ENEMY**_ ’.

The gangsters are putting way too much effort in a ruse if they aren't planning to let the Winchesters go. Dean ponders about it, using his theories about them as a starting point. It would actually make sense to let the Winchesters go when they're done. Yes, Sam and Dean could give up their names, but Dean doesn't think they planned to be anonymous. This is infighting and then you'd want your opponent to know who hit him. _However_ , letting Sam and Dean take the first blame would have the Garrison chase after them first. By the time they were caught, Cas and Luce would be gone and would have fortified their position. The Winchesters would make a pretty decoy. 

So. What to do? The way Dean sees it, they've got several options. Shoot Cas in the back and track down Lucifer to save Sam. (Nope. Not happening. Dean wouldn't mind taking Cas from behind, but not like _that_. Besides, if the Garrison doesn't yet know Cas and Luce have turned traitors, they'd want revenge for the loss of their own.) 

They could track down whoever the Angelus brothers were about to betray, sell them out and ask for amnesty. Yeah, that'll do it for sure. They'd get shot as soon as they'd revealed what they know, having proven to be disloyal from the get-go. Yeah, no.

They could play along, take their new identities and leg it like good little decoys. They'd have a fighting chance. 

Or maybe… they could attach themselves to the brothers. They'd all be hunted, but Cas is handy with the steel. Dean’s been a grunt since they lost their home. He could be useful. As long as it keeps Sam as safe as he can get. Dean's learned that you can never get out completely unscathed once you stepped in it, but you _can_ minimize the damages. 

No. The last option is madness. It's worse than the others. What he needs is to get Sam and get the hell away from Mr. Murder and his Hippie brother. Stop thinking with his dick.

Though it would be nice to get a taste of Cas before they leg it...

“What are you thinking about?” Cas asks. 

“Our future.”

“ _Our_ future?” Cas looks away from the screen to tilt his head, eyebrows dipping low behind the aviators. He'd replaced the cheap gas station sunglasses with a pair identical to the ones Dean had thrown out of the car window, as soon as he sat down behind the desk. Apparently, the guy had several pairs lying around. 

“Yeah. I'd like to think we have one,” Dean answers. He means him and Sam, but Cas may interpret it as he will.

* * *

**7 years ago…**

Sam meets Dean outside of the prison gates. Dean feels relieved enough to cry when he sees him, but holds his tears back. Three months in the slammer, counting the time he’d been in pre-trial custody―he’d gotten off easy. They’d busted him for car theft. It could have been so much worse if they’d connected him to the murder not far from where he stole the car. Shit. He’d never believed himself capable of killing anyone, yet pulling the trigger when he saw the man held a gun to Sam’s head, had been easy. Whenever guilt about killing the guy crept up on him, the image of Sam, and the fear in his eyes eradicated any regrets. Then innate charm had worked on the judge, making Dean’s sentence short. Like Sam said; ‘We do what we can to survive.’

Sam grows like weed. They’re almost at a height now. Only, Sam’s too skinny. Always too skinny. Dean’s got three-months worth of Sam’s malnutrition to make up for. He hugs Sam with a relieved sigh. Being without him had been hell. Prison isn't as bad as it's made out to be, though. Dean made friends, learned new tricks, got tips on how to do this and that. “You've beefed up,” Sam remarks. 

“Steady meals, and access to training equipment will do that to you,” Dean quips. 

Sam chuckles. The hug lingers longer than is proper but Dean can’t make himself let go, not yet, and neither can Sam. “Really? Then maybe next time it’s my turn.”

“ _Dude_. Don’t even joke about it. It wasn’t as bad as I expected, but I sure as hell don’t want you to end up with a record. And I don’t want you to have to align yourself with the folks I did, to keep safe, either.”

“Were you hurt?”

“Nah. Got into a couple of squabbles, but nothing serious. How' bout you? Working hard?”

“Hardly working.” Sam frees himself from the embrace and looks at the ground, shoulders slumping. “I, uh… Look, I was kinda spooked, after, uh… you know. Kept myself mostly hidden, waiting for your release.” He means after he almost got killed.

Dean claps him on the shoulder. “No worries. I’ll teach you some self-defense crap the boys in here,” he gestures with his head to the prison walls, “taught me. Toughen you up. And you know me. I’ve got you, little bro. I’ve got you.”

Sam peeks up from under his bangs on hesitantly smiles lopsidedly, as if he expects Dean to rib him for being afraid. Like hell, Dean would. Sam getting killed is Dean’s worst fear. If the kid keeps his head down while Dean’s not around, it’s a good thing. “I know, Dean. Let’s go.” They start walking alongside the road. Sam isn’t ballsy enough to pick Dean up in a stolen car outside of jail. 

Dean grins. “Oh, and I can finally answer the question you asked two years ago.”

“Two years ago? You expect me to remember something I asked two years ago?” Sam sniggers.

“Yup. You asked if it’s really good, to be fucked in ‘a good way’. And it is. It really fucking is. But heads up, it can hurt like a bitch too. And there’s no such thing as too much lube.”

Sam let’s out a scandalized laugh. “Oh my God! _Dude_ , you’re oversharing! And can you really get lube in prison?”

“Sammy, my boy, you can get anything in prison. Especially dick.”

Sam punches him on the arm.

* * *

Something good came out of the jail time. Dean’s got new contacts and through another ex-inmate that got out the week before Dean, the brothers now have a more steady roof over their head. The rent is dirt cheap, but they only rent a room, and there are other people occupying the other three bedrooms. That doesn’t matter to Dean. Another inmate who’s still serving time managed to hook Dean up with a job, working construction for a relative of his. Their housemates aren’t exactly the most trustworthy, but they’re pretty chill to hang out with as long as you lock your room-door when you leave home. It all gives Dean hope. He’s on the way upward, providing for himself and Sam (mostly) legally. It’s hard to leave a life of criminality once you’ve set foot on that path. And, yeah, so maybe Dean still nicks some stuff in stores, grabs unattended bags, and picks the occasional pocket. But he only takes what he _needs_ , not what he wants, which to him is a significant difference. Bottom line is, he’s got a legal job and a place they can sleep, wash their clothes, and shower without fear. He hasn’t had to point his gun at another person since he got out, hasn’t had to pull his hood down and scarf up to hide his face, and yell at a store clerk to shut up and hand over all the money. This is the safest they’ve been since dad died. It’s a beginning of something good. Hell, if Sam wasn’t so picky about his food at the same time as he ate his weight every day, Dean wouldn’t have to shoplift at all. (You know what organic produce cost these days? It’s fucking expensive, that’s what it is!)

Months pass and Dean starts to relax inwardly. He’s saving money to buy a car, thinking about looking for another apartment once he’s got enough money stashed. He’s starting to have hopes and dreams, and just like dad once did, he’s clocking as many hours of work as he can get. He’s got something in his back pocket that he takes out and fingers every day as a motivator. It’s the college acceptance letter dad never got to see. He’d saved it. Back then he couldn’t say why, but now it serves as a reminder of what he could become. He isn’t too old to go to college. Once Sam turns 18, they won’t have to fear the CPS anymore. He’d be old enough to hold a job of his own. They could share a small apartment. Sam could get a GED, and once Dean’s finished college, Dean would get a job that paid well enough to allow Sam to get his college degree too.

During the days Sam hangs out at libraries, reads or surfs the web, chills with the other housemates, and looks for jobs without any success. In the evenings he rants to Dean about companies polluting, destroying nature, and other related stuff he’s read in the news. All is on the up an’ up. Or so Dean thinks.

He comes home, dead on his feet, and a new salary in his pocket. He’d stopped by at their landlord’s house to pay rent on the way home. He always pays his dues on time. There’s no way he’ll ever get himself into debt like mom did. He nods a tired hello to Nutty, Eazy, and Loco, who are watching a movie in the living room, and heads towards the room he shares with Sam. It’s locked. He thinks nothing of it. Sam isn’t always around when he gets home. The boy’s 16, after all. He takes a BLT out of the (stolen) mini fridge and sits down on his bed to eat. Anything you put in the communal fridge in the kitchen will be eaten by their housemates. Washes it all down with a beer, then he gets off the bed and pulls out his bag from under the bed. Both he and Sam have an emergency bag under their beds these days. Anything that they don’t want to abandon if they suddenly have to leave, goes in there. He digs up a pair of wadded up socks and unrolls them. Habitually, he counts the money hidden in there and balks. About 350 bucks are missing.

His first panicked thought is that one of their housemates has stolen from them. Then he calms himself down. It could be Sam who’s taken it. It makes more sense. It still gives him an unpleasant ball of anxiety in his belly. He stashes his salary in the sock with his other savings, rolls them up again, and puts them back in the bag, but in a new pocket. He shoves the bag back under the bed and leaves the room.

“Yo, guys? You seen Sammy anywhere?” he asks the guys on the couch.

“On the roof with Rube. We’re watchin’ Memento. Grab a beer in the fridge and join us, why won’t you?” Eazy answers.

“Nah. Gotta speak with Sammy first. See ya.”

He leaves the apartment and takes the elevator to the top floor, then the stairs up to the hatch to the roof. He’s not a fan of heights, but Sam comes here from time to time. He finds Sam close to the edge where Ruby’s sitting crosslegged with Sam’s head in her lap, combing through his hair with her fingers.

“Hey, Rube. You ain’t trying to fuck my lil’ bro, are ya? I get that he’s cute an’ all, but you’re way too old for him.”

“Don’t cockblock,” Sam slurs with his eyes closed.

“Chill, D. He’s like a little brother,” Ruby murmurs. Both of them giggle, all relaxed muscles and…

Ruby’s holding a cigarette. Or so Dean thought at first. Until Rube holds the cigarette to Sam’s mouth and he takes a long drag, holding it in. “Sam… are you _high_?”

“Relax, Dean. It’s just weed.” Sam doesn’t even open his eyes to look at him. He’s just lying there with a content little smile. Like the ground beneath Dean’s feet didn’t suddenly drop out.

Dean runs a hand over his mouth and swallows dryly. “Did… did you take money from our stash to buy weed?”

“Mhm.”

_No no no no!_

“Jeezus Christ! How much did you buy?”

“Enough to go around,” Rube answers a beat before Sam says “A zip.”

“Fuck! You took from _our savings_ to buy an _ounce_ of fucking drugs?! Dammit, Sammy! The hell were you thinking?!” Dean’s cold all over. To him, drugs are drugs. End of story. There’s no such thing as ‘just weed’. Hell, he’s even moderate with the alcohol out of fear to tread in his parents' footsteps.

“Oh my God. Don’t be so dramatic. It feels good. We have enough money to afford it.”

“The hell we do! Get your ass off of the roof and go to our room. _Now_.”

Sam frowns and opens his eyes to glare from under heavy eyelids, eye-whites red. “Screw you. You’re not my dad.”

Dean can’t deal. He can’t fucking deal with this shit. He can’t― “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” He turns on his heel and walks away, cold and numb all over, a ball of ice in his stomach.

Loco, out of all people, is the one to notice that something’s wrong when he enters the apartment again. “Oy, hermano. You okay?”

Dean stops to stare blankly at the Mexican chop shop mechanic who’s turned on the couch to look at him. “I’m fine. Why?”

“You look like someone died.” The others turn to look at Dean too.

“Only me. But thanks for asking,” Dean replies numbly.

“You want us to fuck someone up for you?”

Dean snorts in amusement he doesn’t feel and fakes a smirk. “Naah. But I’ll have that beer if the offer’s still open.”

“You know it, D-dog,” Eazy answers.

Dean shrouds himself in a chipper mask and goes to join the guys on the couch.

* * *

“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been? Bernie said you haven’t been to work for days.” Sam comes to join him on the swingset in the park. Dean’s avoided him since he found Sam on the roof. Avoided everyone and everything.

“What’s the point?” Dean asks, toying with the acceptance letter in his hands without looking up. He’s got a whiskey bottle squeezed between his thighs as he swings softly back and forth.

“Aside from paying the bills, you mean?” Sam answers dryly.

Dean’s quiet for a while. He takes a swig from the bottle and puts it back between his thighs. “I’ve been kidding myself, Sam. I’ve had this idea… this lofty goal. I thought… I thought maybe we could get our own apartment. You could get a GED. I’d go to college. Bernie would hire you once you’ve turned 18. You’d pull in our rent while I studied, and once I had my degree I’d get a job well paid enough to pull you through college too. We could get out. Leave this shit life mom condemned us to. No more hustling. No more bullshit. You’d stopped getting dumped by those nice girls you favour, cuz you wouldn’t be trash anymore. And I... “ He shakes his head and tears the letter in half, then the halves in half and throws them on the ground. “Doesn’t matter. I was fooling myself.”

Sam picks the pieces of paper from the ground and looks at them. “Your acceptance letter? You saved it?”

“Yeah, well. I was an idiot. I had this stupid belief that I had a future that didn't include an orange jumpsuit. The hell were you thinking, Sammy?”

“It was just weed, Dean.”

“Like hell it was. You don't remember it, but I do. When mom did all those fun things with us, I'd hear dad argue with her when he thought we were asleep. ‘Why did you do it, Mary? That was the money for our bills!’ I didn't get it back then but I sure as hell do now. I don't get it. You've read the journal. It's a cautionary tale, Sam, not a fucking instruction manual!”

Sam doesn't answer. He rocks the swing he's sitting on, dragging his feet in the sand.

“What do you get up to during the days, anyway? You know, I know that wasn't your first time smoking. I'm not stupid. Nobody buys a fucking zip of weed just to try it. Shit, but nobody _buys_ weed to try it. You're right about one thing, though. I'm not dad. I'm not gonna keep clocking 10 to 16 hours a day, come home dead on my feet so you can use up our savings on drugs. Fuck you, Sammy. Just… fuck you.”

“I'm sorry.” Sam tries to puzzle the pieces of the letter back together. As if he could undo the damage he's done somehow. 

“Then _why_ , Sam? You of all people should know the dangers of drugs. I want to understand what goes on in that thick skull of yours.”

“I just wanted to escape…”

“You don't think _I_ want that too? You don't think all I want to do when I come home, aching all over and so tired I can barely chew my dinner, is to down a bottle of whiskey and fall unconscious? But I don't! I stay up talking to you and I run in my hamster wheel because I want our escape to be fucking permanent!” Dean angrily rubs at his stinging eyes. “I want a picket fence and barbecues, watch Superbowl with friends and neighbours, buy what I want instead of stealing what I need. I want a fucking life, Sam. But you _are_ my fucking life! There ain't no me if there ain't no you, and what you did… what I saw on the roof was a life without you. I can't―“ Dean's voice breaks. “Talk to me, Sam. I can't―“

Dean would be ashamed of his tears if not, when he turns to look at Sam, sees he's teared up too. “Look, Dean. ...Most of the time I can hide it but… I am angry. I’m mad at everything! I used to be mad at Mom and Dad and then the CPS, now it’s the Garrison, and I make excuses. I blame mom or the system, but it’s not their fault. It’s not them. It’s me. It’s inside me! I’m mad… all the time… and I don’t know why!”

Dean stares at his little brother. At the frustration and hate that surfaces underneath the tear tracks. “What do you mean, you don’t know why? It’s clear as a fucking bell, isn’t it?” Sam looks up to meet his gaze. “We’ve been let down by everyone except dad, and he lied to us, left us unprepared. The CPS claimed they wanted to help, but they wanted to take the last piece of security you had. I’m mad too, Sammy. I swear, some days I just want to watch the world burn. I look in the mirror and hate what I’ve become. Remember my first armed robbery? I threw up afterwards, I felt so bad about it. Fuck, the guy must have been so traumatised. I kept hearing dad in my head. ‘Never point a gun at a person unless you intend to shoot. Accidents happen too easily, son.’ And look at me now. I’ve killed. I’m a murderer. Two years since we lost our home and now I don’t even bat an eyelash at pulling a gun at people.” He chuckles humorlessly and shakes his head, taking another big mouthful of whiskey. “And yet, I was thinking I could be saved…”

“I find it so hard to care about other people these days. Aside from you, I don’t…” Sam starts, then takes a deep breath. “Jess, Sarah, Amy… they claimed to be in love with me and care for me, but I wasn’t good enough to introduce to their families. I’m so tired of being angry. Rube offered me a hit on her joint and I couldn’t care. There’s no point anymore. So I tried it. And then I wasn’t angry anymore. It felt so good.”

“I get it. But that’s the danger of drugs. It’s not what it does to your body, it’s that you forget about your problems while they build up and multiply.”

“You tried?”

Dean shakes his head. “Never. Apart from alcohol, I will _never_ try.” He looks up at the dark, cloudy sky, reflecting the city lights. “I guess I’m dad to your mom, huh?”

“Don’t say that, Dean. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Whatever.”

“No! I _promise_. I won’t.” Sam looks so earnest and determined, Dean almost believes him. Except in their room, there’s a journal full of mom making the same promise.

Dean and Sam move out of the apartment that month and take up residence in an abandoned, dilapidated building. Dean doesn’t want Sam around Rube anymore, and Sam doesn't protest. Sam keeps his promise to never touch drugs again, but something inside Dean’s died already...

* * *

**Present day…**

Dean stares at the newly made driver's licenses and passports. He's never seen this level of quality fakes. Cas had what was needed to manufacture them in the room adjacent to his office. Not that Dean had been allowed to see said room. Instead, Dean had wandered into the big cubicle zoo in the middle of this floor. It's shared by many companies. It had earned him a bottle of whiskey, a small pocket knife, and a baseball cap. All neatly hidden inside his jacket that's starting to reach the end of its storage capacity. He feels a bit bad about filching the whiskey since it has a bow and a card saying ‘Happy birthday, Greg’ on it. It can't be helped. Dean will steal compulsively when he feels threatened. Anything that may help survival. Okay, the whiskey was more of a ‘when all is lost’ thing to pilfer, but still…

He _had_ considered making a run for it when Cas left him alone, but Sam's phone had been busted during his arrest (Dean found it on the ground afterwards) and there's no way Dean would find Sam in time, before Cas warned Lucifer and the whole ‘Dead in a ditch’ part of their deal kicked in. Shooting Cas is not an option, because― _Ugh._ He’s getting a bit too attached, okay?

“These are masterfully done, Cas.”

Cas looks incredibly smug as he takes the IDs and passports back and puts them in his briefcase. “I'm well aware. Now let's go. I can create your history at the motel, using my laptop.”

“Our history? Like school records?” Dean asks and follows him. 

“Quite right. Every human leaves a paper trail. I'll give you and your brother a favourable one.”

“Right.” Like it would make any difference. Sam and he would still be hunted by the frigging _mob_ if Dean’s theories are right. Their papers might be in order for the first time, but it wouldn't make a lick of difference to the not-so law-abiding parts of society. He follows behind Cas and notes how people defer and step aside in the face of his well-tailored aloofness. Dean hates him a little for it. But, _man_ , what a sight he is to behold.

Dean's quiet almost the whole drive to the motel. Cas drives and he stares out of the window, thinking about paper trails. Sometime during the drive, he absentmindedly puts his hand on Cas’ thigh, not even thinking about what he’s doing until the car swerves a little. He looks at Cas, who’s blushing, otherwise poker-faced. “Dude. You really are the worst getaway driver.”

“I wasn’t prepared,” Cas answers apologetically. As if they hadn’t made out heatedly not long ago. Dean snorts in amusement and wonders if Cas somehow resets after a cool down period. He doesn’t remove his hand, though, craving the contact, worrying about Sam. It’s late, and hours since Dean spoke with him.

* * *

Cas goes to the front desk to get a key after checking his phone. Dean can see the car Luce and Sam left in, in the parking lot. _Why doesn’t Cas just knock on the damned door?_

Cas comes back and unlocks a door to a motel room, Dean steps inside. It’s empty except for Dean’s emergency bag on a bed, and another (much more fancy) bag on the other. “Where’s Sam?” he asks as he strides to the middle of the room.

“He’s sharing a room with Lucifer. We’re doing the trade off tomorrow,” Cas answers, closing the door behind him.

“Sonnova bitch! Couldn’t we have shared a room the four of us? Jeezus.” Dean turns around angrily and stops dead, breath catching in his throat. Cas is pointing a gun at him.

“Give me back what you stole from me.”

_Fuck_.

Dean stares defiantly at him, jaw clenching.

“Don’t be difficult, Dean. Put the gun on the table beside you.”

_**The** gun? As in singular?_ Heart jumping frantically and a muscle by his eye ticking, Dean doesn’t move. “Where’s Sam?”

“Asleep and well. Lucifer sent me a text. We honour our promises, Dean. Put the gun on the table.”

Dean knows a lost cause when he sees one. Still, he hesitates, rebels. Cas is definitely using singular. He knows _one_ is missing. Dean tries to figure out which one. The one in the holster at the back is a small lightweight thing, the holster puts a constant pressure on his back. The one Dean took at the gas station is heavier, but unfamiliar. Enough distraction could’ve made Cas forget he had it. Not likely, but it could.

“Dean. As a token of trust, we didn't search you. Give me the gun or that will change,” Cas tells him patiently. 

Dean stalls. He can see a slight sheen starting to form on Cas’ forehead. Sweat. Nerves. Something his posture and expression don't give away, but bodily reactions can't be stopped. Just like Dean can't stop the adrenaline rushing, the fearful beat of his heart, or the tick by his eye. Slowly he pulls his hand inside of his jacket arm. Cas hadn't shown nerves at the Garrison’s office nor at the gas station. 

_Maybe he's gotten attached too, and struggles with the wish not to hurt me? Just like I did when I considered popping him at his office._

Can he really be that lucky?

Dean gives Cas a charming smile and grabs the nuzzle of the gas station gun. He pulls it out and carefully places it on the table. “Can't blame a guy for trying, can you? You keep throwing me into possibly lethal situations without a way to defend myself. I ain't gonna shoot you. You've got me by the balls, babe. You're holding Sam hostage.” He holds up his hands in surrender.

Cas lowers the gun minutely. He doesn’t seem surprised to see the gas station gun, so he must not have realised his own gun is missing. “Back up.”

Dean drops the fake smile but keeps his hands up as he backs away from the table. His mind is going a mile a minute. What course of action will serve him best at this point? Long-term. Rather, which choice would make sure there will _be_ a long term?

Cas walks up to the table and grabs the gun, back mostly turned to Dean.

“Hey, Cas? Did you just want that gun, or do you want everything I stole from you back?”

Cas turns around to look at him, gun lowered. He’s frowning, brows dipping low behind the aviators. But he also tilts his head a little, making Dean think it’s a puzzled frown.

“Don’t shoot, alright? I’m just gonna give back what I took, okay?” Dean urges and steps up to the table again, slowly sticking his hand inside the jacket. He can see the tension in Cas while he watches Dean move, poised and ready to aim his gun again. Dean takes out the pocket watch and the credit card, dropping them on the table. Then the other gun. If they’re going to sleep here Cas might undress and will notice it’s gone anyway.

If Dean’s heart wasn’t beating a mile a minute, scared shitless of what will happen now, he would have laughed at Cas shocked expression. It's a huge risk to both disarm himself and reveal his skill level. It might be a fatal mistake. On the other hand… “A token of trust? Please, Cas. Call Luce and let me speak to Sam. Let me know he's alright, and I promise I won't try to sneak out of here to find him.”

“Luce said not to wake him up.” Cas’ whole posture radiates discomfort as he puts his small gun back in the holster. He definitely hadn’t noticed it was gone.

Dean pushes his Oakleys up in his hair and gives Cas the most pleading look he can muster, trying to look defeated. “Then why not a video call? Let me see him asleep.”

Cas holsters his other gun and picks up the other two stolen objects to stare at them. As if he can't figure out how Dean got them. He pats himself on the chest, where the wallet is in a pocket _inside_ the suit jacket. Dean's fucking glad he put it back earlier. “I… I suppose I could do that…” Cas concedes and puts the watch and the credit card where they belong. He takes his phone out and stares blankly at it. Not until Dean whispers ‘Please’ one more time, does he make the call. 

Lucifer picks up almost instantly. “ _Yes_?” He demands pointedly with sharp, sleep rough voice. It’s amazing how much content you can fit in a three letter word. Dean can clearly hear the whole sentence crammed in there. ‘ _You better have a good reason for this call, or you’ll regret waking me, you little shit._ ’

Cas smatters something in Russian, looking both apologetic and defiant at the same time. Dean can’t see the phone screen, can’t see Luce from this angle, but he can see how Cas changes from apologetic to self-righteous and annoyed while he speaks.

“Very well,” Luce answers and Cas transfers the phone to Dean. Luce has made his way outside while he was speaking with Cas, and Dean can see that he’s leaning against the motel wall, but he can’t see the door with the room number. The annoyance about having been woken up seems to have left him, leaving a soft, but tired expression. Dean can only see his shoulders and the top of his chest, but he’s wearing a worn military green T-shirt, and his hair is ruffled. Dean gets a brief glimpse of a tattoo wrapped around his upper arm when he raises a hand to drag through his hair. He looks like a guy Dean would have started a conversation with at a bar, maybe played some pool with. Networked. He looks nothing like the corporate mobster douchewad he is. Luce speaks before Dean does. “Dean. Sam is fine. He told me he’s barely slept while the cops had him. He acted flippant about it, but I gathered that incarceration does not agree with him. I don’t want to wake him up. So keep your voice down.”

It’s true. Sam had done shorter stints of time and usually refused to talk about it. Dean took to prison like a fish to water, while Sam… yeah, Dean doesn’t want to think about it. Although, Sam has guaranteed, with enough conviction to convince, that he’s never been raped. So there’s that. “Alright. Just let me see him.”

Lucifer nods. Then he holds the phone to his chest, making the screen go black. Probably to hide which room they’re in. Bastard. When the image comes back Dean can see Sam sprawled shirtless in bed, lying on his back, one arm over his head and the other sticking out straight to the side. The blanket is rucked down to his waist. While he can’t see it, Dean knows that it’s probably covering his feet. His brother is usually a furnace, but he can’t sleep if his feet are cold. He looks peaceful. “He could be dead,” Dean mutters, unconvinced. Sam’s actually sleeping like he does when he feels completely, utterly safe. Dean’s not happy about that.

Luce, out of frame, whisperingly mutters “For God’s sake,” in response. Then his arm comes into view as he steps closer, fingers outstretched, hooked as claws. He drags his nail lightly along the side of Sam’s ribs. Sam swats at his hand and mumbles “Fuck off,” not quite waking up.

Dean can’t believe his fucking eyes. Why the hell would Sam _tell_ Luce where he’s ticklish? And he must have told him. Because it’s quite specific. Sam’s ticklish under his feet and along the ribs, but only if you use your nails, not the fingers. There’s no other way Lucifer could have found out except for― _Nope_. Sam’s not into older men so Dean doesn’t finish the thought, running into a wall of white noise in his head.

_At least Sam’s not under any duress. If he was afraid of Lucifer he wouldn’t have told him to fuck off, that’s for sure. Or sleep like a toddler on his back._

Part of Dean wants to curse and rant because Sam doesn’t know the danger he’s in. Another part is grateful, since Sam’s peacefulness is telling when it comes to how he’s been treated.

The screen goes dark again, and when the image comes back, Luce is yet again outside. “Look, Tyro, I know the circumstances around us meeting are unfortunate, but us meeting, is not. I guarantee you, you’re both safe in our hands,” he says reassuringly.

“That would be so much more convincing, hadn’t Cas dropped two bodies already.”

“Two? I thought it was just one?” Lucifer frowns and tilts his head the same way Cas does it when he’s puzzled.

“Uh-huh. There was this gas station clerk too.” Dean throws a look at Cas, standing stock still a couple of feet away.

“Really now… and why did he do that?”

“The guy wouldn’t let us buy snacks because we were too gay.”

“I wonder what made him come to that conclusion,” Luce purrs with lips twitching in amusement.

“So we were flirting a bit. Get over it.”

Lucifer’s face smooths out in a not-quite-neutral mask that screams ‘I’m laughing on the inside’. Fuck him. “You know, you could have just made a scathing remark and stolen the goods.”

“That’s what _I_ said!”

“Allow me to guess. It was _you_ who was hungry?” Luce asks, teasing humour apparent in both voice and eyes.

“Прекрати!” Cas barks, scowling at the phone in Dean’s hand. Lucifer can’t see him but apparently, he doesn’t have to, he sniggers anyway.

“You can laugh but he tied me to a fucking murder scene, for fuck sake.”

“Did he not clean up?”

“Yeah, but still.”

“And what did you do while he cleaned up?” Luce asks, looking curious now.

“I manned the register and took care of the customers.”

“And how did that go?”

“What is this? Some kind of self-contemplating performance review? Fuck off.”

“Cas, how did he do?” Luce asks while Dean scowls at the phone.

“Excellent. He performed the task as if he’d worked there for years. No sign of anxiety even when he had to step over the body. Admittedly, his charm made him memorable, but as Micha often has proven, that needn’t be of disadvantage,” Cas reports.

Luce hums. “So you do have people skills after all? Don’t worry about the body. It’s not Cas’ first rodeo. And, please, forgive his courting inadequacy. He hasn’t quite learned when flowers and chocolate would suffice.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Alright, this conversation is over. But you better mark my words, if you hurt Sam, I’ll fuck your brother,” Dean threatens.

Lucifer blinks in puzzlement, then his lips start twitching in amusement. “You mean, you’ll fuck my brother _up_?”

“That’s what I said! Weren’t you listening? Fuck. I’m serious, Luce. Anything you do to Sam, I’ll do to Cas, got that?”

“Way ahead of you,” Luce answers with a mirthful smirk.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lucifer does a dismissive gesture. “I mean, I understand. See you tomorrow at breakfast, aspirant. Have a good night.” Luce lowers the phone to shut it off and the last thing Dean hears before the connection is broken is Lucifer laughing. Asshole. Dean looks at Cas, glaring as if it was his fault that Lucifer is both an asshole and kinda reasonable in a way Cas isn't. But Cas is looking at the floor, downright crimson. 

_I did say I would fuck him up. ...Didn’t I?_

_Yes I did. Stop doubting yourself, Winchester._

So. He's stuck here for the night. He hates the opposing feelings inside of him. Stuck alone in a motel room with a hot guy that's into him? Hell yeah! Stuck in a motel room with a deranged mobster keeping his brother hostage, that keeps pointing a gun at him? Fuck no!

“I call first dibs on the shower,” Dean states and throws the phone on the table, then turns on his heel to go and passive-aggressively use up all the hot water.

* * *

Cas sits at the table working, rat-tat-tatting away on the keyboard of his laptop. He's removed his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. With the holsters and waistcoat, he looks like a film noir detective. The room is dark except for a bedlight and the glow from the laptop. It's 3 A.M. In the room next to theirs a bed is squeaking, headboard slamming into the wall rhythmically. Doesn't take a genius to figure out what those neighbours are doing. 

At least Dean can rule out Sam being in there. That leaves, what? 38 more rooms where he could be.

Dean's tried to sleep. He really has. But then the neighbours started up and made it impossible. Especially with Cas sitting there, aviators removed, looking hot as hell. Dean propped up in bed, whiskey bottle in his lap, and a resentful boner in his pants. Sam had left him the emergency bag, and a plastic bag with a new set of clothes, presumably bought by Luce, but definitely chosen by Sam. Sturdy jeans, belt, a hoodie with a pouch, and a black and red plaid jacket with loads of pockets, and sleeves ideal for shoplifting and pickpocketing. Best of all, the jacket can be worn inside out. In one quick move, it can turn into a black jacket, perfect for a swift disguise.

Right now, though, Dean wears soft sweats and a tee. He's a bit drunk. Feeling powerless will do that to him. And whiskey, of course, but they're basically the same - equally incapacitating. ‘Sam’s alright’ has been going like a mantra in his head. How the hell did fucking _Lucifer_ manage to make Sam so relaxed? No, seriously. The man’s named L-U-C-I-F-E-R. If _that_ doesn’t trigger alarms, nothing will.

Dean puts the whiskey on the nightstand and gets out of bed and walks up to Cas. He puts his hands on the table, bracketing Cas, and leans so his cheek brushes Cas’ ear. Cas tenses a bit but does not lose his focus on the clickety-clicking he’s doing. Dean stares at the screen. It was too long ago since he worked with computers in any fashion that could be construed as ‘advanced’, but it looks like Cas is working in the code of an operative system or something. A grey screen with coding in different colours. “Hey, babe. Why don’t you take a break from that and come to bed?” Hah! Not what he’d intended to say. What are they? Boyfriends? Yeah, no.

“I’m working on a time limit, Dean.”

Nothing. No reaction except for general tenseness.

“Come ooon. I can’t sleep. The neighbours are having fun. Wanna see if we can outdo them?” Dean suggests and nibbles on Cas’ earlobe.

_Taptaptaptap― tap._ Cas fingers slip and he stills. “I see. You’re propositioning me.”

“Mmmmhm,” Dean answers and mouths at Cas’ neck. He can see that stupid flush rising on Cas’ skin, along with the small hairs pricking. The even more stupid butterflies are back in Dean’s belly. He inhales deeply through his nose. Cas’ smells so fucking good. One day’s worth of sweat, cologne almost gone. Shit, he’s perfect. People shouldn’t be allowed to smell that good. Dean gets the weird impulse to burrow his nose in Cas’ armpit to get a full dose of it. He doesn’t. He’s not some weird sicko. (But he kinda wants to.)

“Not now. I’ve got work left to do.” _Taptaptaptaptap._

Dean’s offended. “I thought you were some kind of genius. Shouldn’t you be done already?” Dean bites loosely at Cas’ neck, tasting him with his tongue. He tastes as good as he smells. Even the hair on Cas’ arms stands on end.

“Creating two identities from scratch isn’t easy, Dean. Not only do I need to hack and plant information in numerous places, but I had to create the files I dump too, since we had none prepared. Hospital records, school records, big companies where you’ve been employed, credit card companies, universities―”

“Universities?” Dean stops what he’s doing and frowns.

“Yes. I gave Sam a Bachelor’s in environmental science from Stanford EARTH, and I gave you a Master’s in Aeronautical and Astronautical/Space Engineering from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Prescott. You’ll have to request the paperwork for yourselves, but the files are there.”

Dean feels himself go cold, inside out. Total boner killer. “No, no, no. Don’t do that. I haven’t studied any of that. I can’t exactly apply for a job like that with a false degree.”

“Of course you can. As for studies, those can be done at home.”

“Take a shower, Cas. You stink.” Dean backs away and goes back to bed, numb inside. Once upon a time, it was his dream. He’s long given up on it and now it’s falsely served on a silver platter. But Cas doesn’t get it. He wanted to study. He wanted to _learn_. Aside from that, aerospace engineers design primarily aircraft, spacecraft, satellites, and missiles. It’s not a fake it ‘til you make it kinda business. You fuck up, people die and horrible accidents happen. Plus, if/when they’re set free, they’re set free as decoys for the mob. It’s downright cruel to dangle this old dream in front of him. He grabs the whiskey and takes several long swallows, drinking as if it was water. Then he crawls under the blanket, hits the light and lies there nursing the bottle.

He’s not even sure he still wants it. What started dying when he found Sam smoking weed had been replaced with acceptance of what can never be. He’s started taking pride in what he _can_ do. Both the legal on not so legal skills he has. He’s a great mechanic from working at chop shops. He’s done a lot of manual labour working construction, and he’s good at that. He’s good at charming people, picking pockets and locks (although, Sam’s the real genius when it comes to picking locks), at surviving and adapting. But he’s no longer the same as he was when dad was still alive. He’s too jaded, to disillusioned for the picket fence life he once dreamed of. He’s settled, in being the man who made all of Sam’s environmental schemes come to life.

It still hurts, though, to be reminded of what once was. He falls asleep still cradling the whiskey, mourning the young hopeful Dean Winchester, who died shortly after his father…

* * *


	8. GOODFELLAS

* * *

**GOODFELLAS**

* * *

Dean’s awaking isn’t all that bad if he’s to be honest. He cracks an eye open to find Cas standing by the other bed, hair wet and curling on his forehead, naked save for a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s rifling through his overnight bag and Dean can glimpse tattoos on the back of his shoulders and upper arms. He’s fit, but not ridiculously so. Cas finds a pair of boxers, turns around and― _sweet Jesus!_ ―drops the towel. Dean opens his eyes and oogles shamelessly. Not only does Cas have a glorious ass and beautiful back muscles, but, _God!_ , the tattoo! Between his shoulder blades, there's some kind of symbol, and a pair of wings extend from it, black with blue highlights, stretching out along his arms, almost to the tips of the elbows. It's gorgeous. 

_Angelus… I wonder if the whole family has tattoos like that? Isn't the Russian mob famous for their tattoos?_

Cas balances on one leg to put his boxers on. “Do you and Luce have the same tattoo?” Dean asks. 

Cas jerks with a startled yelp and loses his balance. Tipping over to land on the floor beside the bed. Dean giggles when Cas’ disgruntled, blushing face pops up over the bed to glare. “Of course not. He's an Arch.”

Dean tries to figure out what that means. Arch… as in Archangel? “So, what…? He's got three pairs of wings?” he hedges. 

“Yes.” Cas wiggles. When he stands up again he's wearing his underwear. His blush reaches all the way down his chest. Mortified and disgruntled. Dean wonders if it’s a form of rank insignia. It makes sense. Didn’t they say they were born into their business? If it was just an inheritance thing, they wouldn’t make a distinction between an archangel and a ‘normal’ angel. Not that anything about Cas bespoke normalcy. But he does defer to Luce.

“I lied to you yesterday,” Dean offers and sits up.

“About what?”

“You didn't stink. I like the way you smell.”

Dean didn't think it possible, but lo and behold, Cas’ blush turns even darker crimson. Though, he's still glaring with those awesome, stormy sea eyes of his. “My olfactory organs work perfectly fine, Dean. You stated a fact. I could detect the accuracy of it myself.”

“Just saying I like your smell, not claiming you weren't sweating. Have you slept?”

Cas quickly averts his gaze to rummage in his bag. “Of course.” Too quickly.

“Let me rephrase that. Have you slept _tonight_?”

“You’re not my keeper, Dean,” Cas answers and puts on a white wifebeater.

That’s definitely a no. Said with the same put-upon voice Sam uses when Dean’s on him about not eating properly. “Did you finish the job?”

Cas’ huffs and gives Dean an offended look. “Of course.”

“So you prioritise working and don’t take care of yourself. Is this a one-off thing, or do you always miss out on sleep?”

“Is cavilling an older brother trait? Please, Dean, leave the carping on me to Lucifer.” Cas puts on socks and suit pants next.

Dean chuckles. “Aww. Why does he get to have all the fun? ‘Sides, since you just admitted to not sleeping well, I think someone ought to look after you.” Dean spots the half-full whiskey bottle on his nightstand. Cas must have put it there because Dean had fallen asleep cradling it.

“I didn’t _admit_ it,” Cas mutters under his breath, then, louder, “I can’t discern if you’re deriding me, or if you’re concerned for my well-being,” Cas states, buttoning a white shirt.

“A bit of both, I think,” Dean answers with a lopsided smirk. 

Cas seems troubled by that but he doesn't answer.

Dean sits quietly for a while and studies Cas. Considering all of yesterday, he should probably have woken up stressed to high heavens. But Dean isn’t even remotely stressed. Not yet. It’s a talent of his. Sleep on stuff and wake up to accept reality as is. That usually changes once he gets out of bed and faces the day, but right now all is well and last he saw Sam, he was sleeping like a babe. The Angelus brothers had been surprisingly respectful, in a way. Aside from Cas waylaying him outside of the Garrison office, he hadn’t demanded to get the stuff, instead focused on fulfilling their part of the coerced deal. Kinda like, ‘we’re gonna fuck you over, but we’ll try to make it pleasurable for you too, okay?’ The imagery almost makes Dean smile. Really, they could’ve just killed the Winchesters in their sleep if they wanted to. “Is Sam alright?” he asks.

“Yes. We’re meeting our brothers in 40 minutes at the Biggerson's across the street for breakfast.”

Dean chooses to believe him. “Hey, babe? I know I've got terrible morning breath right now, but how ‘bout a good morning kiss?” Luck favours the brave, right?

Cas puts on his tie and tilts his head, squinting curiously. “I was not aware our interactions had reached the level of intimacy that allows for spontaneous affection in that manner. Are you sure that's appropriate?”

The laugh that comes bubbling up within takes Dean by surprise. So does the burst of affection. The hell is wrong with him? Cas is his kidnapper, for God's sake! Not that Dean's body and heart seem to care all that much. “Dude. I'm a 100% sure it _isn't_ appropriate. But neither is murder, larceny, auto theft, extortion, and kidnapping. In the grand scheme of things, I'm sure a couple of kisses ain't much to get riled up about. But hey. If you don't want to…” Dean holds up his hands in a placating gesture, smirking in amusement. 

Cas’ lips quirk into a barely there smile. “I assure you, I'm quite amenable.” He abandons tying his tie and walks towards Dean, stopping beside the bed. There he seems to lose confidence, looking down at Dean, eyes seeming a lighter blue and insecure, while his cheeks tint pink. Fuck, but Dean loves how easily Cas’ blushes. He changes colour as quickly and noticeable as an octopus. It’s adorable. Dean grins, grabs Cas by the loose hanging tie and pulls him down face to face, meeting zero resistance. Cas has to catch himself with his hands on the bed lest he faceplants in Dean’s lap (Hey, now that’s an idea!) but leans in and touches his lips to Dean’s. It’s soft, dry and chaste, and it makes Dean’s heart swell ten sizes. Gravity ceases. Dean doesn’t want to think about the implications of that. Instead, he closes his eyes and wraps Cas’ tie around his fist properly, locking him in place. 

Cas opens his mouth and deepens the kiss, throwing chaste out the window. Dean totally doesn’t make a wounded noise. He doesn’t, okay?

But Cas tastes of toothpaste and Dean knows that falling asleep after drinking half a bottle of whiskey isn’t doing his own taste and breath any favours. He turns self-conscious and breaks the (perfect) kiss. “Maybe we shouldn’t… I need to brush my teeth. You don’t―” Dean flusters, pushing Cas away.

“No! More!” Cas protests and pushes back, attaching himself to Dean’s lips again forcefully enough for Dean to tip over backwards with Cas on top.

Dean grins and gives in, those silly butterflies waving around sparklers in celebration. Hell, it was for Cas’ sake he wanted to brush his teeth. But if the guy doesn’t mind? Fuck it.

* * *

**4 years ago…**

Dean honks the horn of the shiny vintage Camaro convertible before he jumps out of it and goes to meet Sam as he comes out from the prison gates. They hug, backslapping at first, clinging after a beat. “Don’t tell me you’re picking me up in a stolen car,” Sam whispers just before they let go of each other.

“Then don’t ask me where I got it,” Dean deadpans with a shiteating grin. Sam gives him a bitchface with flared nostrils, making him snigger. He throws his arm around Sam and leads him to the car. “You've lost weight. Didn't they feed you?”

Sam scoffs as Dean opens the passenger door for him. “Yeah they did, but I wouldn't call it food.”

“That's because you're a princess with over-sensitive tastebuds.” Dean goes around the car and gets behind the wheel.

“Just because you eat anything,” Sam mutters. 

“Hey, I can be picky too.” Dean starts the car and turns out on the road.

“Dean. I've seen you eat half the paper wrapping around your burger without noticing,” Sam points out dryly. 

Dean cackles. “Point taken,” he agrees and starts the car. His heart's too big for his chest. Sam's finally back. Life's good again. 

“You still working at that office?”

Dean grows serious. “No. Somebody started stealing office supplies so I got fired. It wasn't me, but since I was the only one with a rap sheet, they blamed me. Then I got a job as a cashier at Wal-Mart, but when they found out I'd lied about my wrap sheet, cuz I didn't tell them I had one, I got fired again. I'm telling you, Sammy, I can't catch a break. Doesn't matter how well I perform. It's like society _wants_ me to remain a criminal.”

“Fuck them. What are you doing now?”

“Levi’s chop shop. Flirting with Monroe to get him to hire me. He owns a building company, did you know?”

“I didn't.”

“I'm actually trying to convince him to take us both. Oh! Got you a laptop so you don't have to go to a library to find new crusades.” In reality, Sam shouldn’t really have a job, as far as Dean is concerned. Sam’s more adamant about it, but the truth is, Sam’s so devoted to his causes he doesn’t have _time_ for a job. And Dean feels good about supporting Sam in his endeavours. It’s become his ‘thing’. He’ll never build spaceships or construct new materials made to endure extreme conditions, and he’s okay with that these days. The pure joy on Sam’s face when he won one of his battles against the figurative windmills he challenged, is what drives Dean. 

Sam's lips twitch in amusement. “Thanks.”

“So how was prison? How are you?”

“I'm _fine_. And I don't want to talk about it.” Meaning, he isn't fine. Dean doesn't want to force a conversation, but…

“Nobody dropped a soap on you, did they?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Nobody raped me, if that's what you're asking. It's not that. Look. The people in there… I don't like who I need to be with them around. I…” Sam sighs and drags a hand through his hair. 

“I hear you. But you'd tell me, right?”

Sam nods, not looking at Dean, jaws clenched. “I, uh, I'm not sure I'd tell you what happened if something like that would happen, but I'd give you a name. I can promise you that.”

“It's all I'm asking.” Dean believes him. They've become so attuned to each other, knowing each other's needs, that Dean trusts Sam to allow him vengeance on anyone who hurts Sam, because it’d be a _need_ to get even. It's not a mindless need to protect Sammy. It's not like Dean would go after anyone who offended Sam. But serious threats, like rape, violent or armed robbery, stuff like that. Today they trusted each other to handle themselves if they wound up in a jam. Sam's grown up to be a gigantor that can be a fairly intimidating pugilist. 

Sam's been in prison for 6 months―convicted to 9 months, but out on parole for good behaviour. He'd been unlucky, getting a really harsh judge. He'd been busted for shoplifting. It's stupid. Sam's not good at it. Worse, he keeps taking weird stuff. Things they don't need or even _want._ Like this time. He'd taken one of those kid jewellery sets with plastic rings, bracelets, and a necklace. Like, _why?_ Yeah, no. Not even Sam could explain. It’s probably some strange sort of coping mechanism.

“You got anything in the works?” Dean asks. He’ll never admit he likes the thrill of doing the shit Sam came up with. It had started after Sam snapped. When Dean had gotten hurt when the floor gave way in the abandoned building they were staying after Dean busted Sam doing weed, Sam had become withdrawn. Dean’s broken ribs had healed slowly and had incapacitated him a lot more than it should. He couldn’t work and their standard of life went down low. Then one night when they’d been walking home from somewhere Sam had stopped in front of an office to a company that kept dumping poison in a nearby lake. They had refused to stop, meaning it was too expensive to change routines, especially since the politicians didn’t put a law in place to forbid the practise. But the company had not thought it too expensive to invest millions in advertising, and raises for the higher-ups.

Sam had stared at the office with fist clenched, looked around, then grabbed a steel bar from the ground and went to town smashing windows. It was the first time Dean had seen Sam act out violently. Once the windows were smashed Sam made his way inside and started thrashing the place. Dean should have stopped it. He should. Instead, he followed inside and went from room to room, dismounting and stealing every hard drive he could find. When they left the place was completely trashed. They got out just in time before the cops came. Dean had dumped the hard drives in a car carcass in a junkyard the next town over. Surprisingly, the raid had been successful. The company hadn’t invested in security and their insurance was skeletal. Better yet, they didn’t have cloud storage. They’d been out of business within months.

To this day Dean can still remember how Sam looked, staring at the office. Eyes all black, nostrils flared, lips a thin line. The anger Sam had told him he felt all the time, had been plain on his face.

It was the birth of a new Sam. He took control of a life he couldn’t control. Just like Dean he always chose the legal route first. Writing letters to companies, politicians, journalists. He arranged protest marches, waved signs and yelled outside of offices, researched laws and made the right people file lawsuits based on what he knew. But when all else failed, he went dark. And Dean followed, protecting, financing, and helping. Considering the things they’d done, it was doubly stupid that Sam got busted for shoplifting.

“Yeah,” Sam answers. “There’s a hospital in Greenville, that conducts unethical experiments on four puppies. It’s a project to understand pain. To get their data they hurt the dogs and measure…” Sam dives into a long-winded, passionate explanation of what will be their next mission and why. He’s been fighting this fight from jail, deemed it unsuccessful, and now they need to rescue said dogs. Dean never listens attentively to the ‘whys’ of their missions. He picks up the details of what will become the ‘how’. Let Sam be the one to devour University level books on law, environment and whateverfuck. Dean will study blueprints, get gear, do recon, plan. They’re saving the Earth one tree at the time. Winning some, losing some. As long as Sam’s happy, Dean will gladly be an environmental protecting terrorist...

* * *

**Present day…**

“Guess I’m not the one helpless at someone’s feet, huh?” Dean teases, smirking down at Cas who’s pinned underneath him. Dean has his wrists locked, gripped in a hand and pushed into the pillow overhead. Cas’ hair is dry now, wild, sticking out in whichever direction. His face is flushed and sweaty, debauched and feverish with lips red from kissing. His chest heaving, shirt unbuttoned and rumpled, wifebeater rucked up to his collarbone. He's so hot Dean barely knows what to do with himself. The fucking tie’s still around his throat because when Dean yanks him around in it, it drives Cas absolutely bonkers in the best of ways. 

Dean can't tell for how long they've been making out. Long enough for Dean to lose his shirt, but not long enough to get naked. The concept of time sort of dissipated during their activity, leaving Dean’s brain on minimal functionality, producing words at random, like: _Perfect, beautiful, gorgeous, perfect, amazing, awesome, incredible, perfect, stunning, sizzling, unbelievable_. And so on and so forth. ‘Perfect’ just kept popping up over and over. Cas is passionate, needy, and _so_ responsive. He isn’t even remotely awkward or shy now. If you don’t count the ‘Dear Lord, have mercy!’ Cas uttered when Dean straddled him and pulled off his shirt. That’s a good reaction. Like it should be.

They’ve gone from slow reverence to heated want and back again a couple of times. Seriously, any time the pace halted and Cas looked at him with parted lips, big eyes, and an awed expression, trailing fingers along his skin as if he couldn’t take in that he got to do that to Dean, Dean’s heart swelled, filling him with affection he should _not_ be feeling. In his defense, Cas is definitely not holding his guard up as Dean’s captor. He’s barely struggling in Dean’s grip as Dean keeps him locked down, grinding them together.

Cas’ phone rings, breaking the moment.

“Блядь!” Cas curses and makes a move to get out from under Dean. Dean holds him firm. “Dean. It could be Luce!”

“So what? Let him wait. We’re busy.”

“ _Dean_.” Cas scowls at him, struggling against the grip. It’s a good grip. Cas would have to turn this into a real fight to get out of it. Something he doesn’t seem eager to do. Instead, he relaxes and turns his head to stare at his phone, distress mounting.

“Fuck sake.” Dean rolls off of him and pushes him off the bed, sending him over the edge with a yelp. Dean rolls off in the other direction and grabs the bag of clothes he got from Sam to get dressed. He knows it’s Lucifer. Of course, it is. He’s not sure how long they’ve been making out, but he’s pretty certain they’ve already missed their appointed time of forty minutes. Luce might be worried about Cas, and Sam might be in danger if Luce is worried. Dean wishes the real world would stop hassling him. He dresses quickly, hearing Cas answer the phone in the background.

When he’s fully dressed in the new clothes Sam got him, the Oakleys Cas gave him, topped up with the stolen baseball cap put on backwards (Cas seemed to like the fuckboy look, didn’t he?), he equally fast packs his bag, then turns his attention towards Cas. Cas has his back towards Dean. Dean needs to teach him that just because you make out with somebody doesn’t mean you can trust them with your safety.

On second thought, he does _not_ need to teach Cas that. Not as long as Sam’s a hostage. Later. When Sam’s free. Then he and Cas can― _STOP IT! There will be no hanging around with Cas after that, okay?_

Something mournful and disappointed twists in Dean’s belly at the thought. 

_This is a ruse to make Cas unable to off me, okay? I’m **not** falling for him!_

Somehow, he can't even make himself believe that. Fuck!

Cas gestures with a hand, speaking Russian and sounding apologetic and pleading. Dean goes to Cas’ bed, sees the clothing laid out there along with the guns and holsters. He packs everything Cas isn’t going to wear in Cas’ overnight bag (the slob has thrown half of the content out rifling through it), then walks around to Cas’ front. Cas’ has pulled down the wifebeater but that’s it. His shirt is still hanging open and the tie hangs askew, belt open. His expression turns baffled when Dean deftly starts buttoning his shirt, pushes it down in his pants (resisting the urge to grip Cas’ semi while he has his hand down there), smooths out the fabric, and closes the belt. Cas keeps talking on the phone, tilting his head curiously as Dean progresses, removing the tie, smoothing it out and looping it around Cas neck, making a four-in-hand knot. He then goes to fetch Cas’ waistcoat and holds it open for Cas to stick his arms in. He buttons it up and fetches the holsters. By the time Cas finishes the phone conversation he’s fully dressed and Dean has fetched and packed the toiletries Cas had left in the bathroom, and brushed his own teeth.

“So what did your cockblocking brother want?” Dean asks as Cas checks his wallet to see if Dean’s pilfered anything before putting it in his pocket.

“He inquired as to why we were late.”

“Yeah, well. They know what room we’re staying in. He could have stopped by and knocked. You know how rude it is to just stop to take a call while going at it hot and heavy?”

“Something could have happened. He could have been in danger.”

“Pray tell what kind of danger Luce could be in? Cuz you know, Sam would be in the same danger as him by association, and you guaranteed me he’d be safe with Luce.”

“Sam might have been the danger.”

Dean scowls. “Fuck you. Sam doesn’t even know you’re hostile. Why the fuck would _he_ be a danger?”

“We’re not hostile,” Cas argues.

“Remind me of that the next time you point a gun at me. Now come on. I’m hungry.” Dean leaves the hotel room and aims for the restaurant across the street. The traffic isn’t all that heavy but he still has to wait long enough to cross, for Cas to catch up. Dean firmly ignores him.

“You’re very frustrating, Dean. You keep giving me mixed signals I can’t interpret.”

“Newsflash, hotshot. Mixed emotions come with mixed signals. I keep forgetting how much of an asshole you are and you keep reminding me. Plus, you’re a fucking tease.” Dean crosses the street. So he’s being a dick. He knows he is. He can’t help it. He wants Cas to be as hung up on him as he is on Cas. He wants to forget the whole extortion thing. He wants to _not care_ that he’s never going to see Cas again. Fucking feelings, man. They’re a hassle.

“ _I’m_ a tease?” Cas asks in bewilderment as they cross the street and stop between the lanes to wait for more cars to pass. “I’ve never been called a tease before. I have no intention of leading you on, Dean. But we ran out of time.”

Dean scoffs. “How about yesterday? You could have taken a break and fooled around for a bit.”

“I didn’t have time,” Cas answers, sounding frustrated. Okay, Dean’s definitely pouting like a huge baby, yanking Cas’ chain. 

“There’s such a thing as quickies, babe.”

“I resent that. If I’m honoured with a delicacy, I wish to take my time savouring it. Not stuff my face like a heathen.”

Dean’s lips twitch. Cas’ definitely could have fooled him, with his desperate, demanding ‘No! More!’ On the other hand, as passionate as Cas had been, he _hadn’t_ hurried towards the finish line. “You calling me a delicacy, babe?”

“Very much so.”

Oh, okay. So maybe Dean can forgive him… for now. Although, for good measures Dean jostles him on the way into Biggerson’s to free him from his wallet, then one more time to put it back with one credit card less.

* * *

Sam and Lucifer are sitting beside each other in a corner booth. Cas slides in to sit opposite Sam, leaving the place across from Luce to Dean. Sam’s contentedly sipping coffee, looking relaxed and in good health. It’s funny how some part of Dean always eases as soon as he’s in Sam’s presence. Not only in dire situations like this, but always. Probably due to the fear of losing him, Dean just felt more comfortable if he knew exactly where Sam was. “Mornin’,” Dean greets them.

Lucifer looks surprised to see them. “That was fast.”

“Fast? Dude, we’re 25 minutes late,” Dean points out bemusedly.

“Yes, but Cas said he needed 30 minutes to get dressed and pack.”

Dean pushes his Oakleys up onto his baseball cap. “Really?” He turns his head to look at Cas. “Were you buying us more time or do you actually need 30 minutes to get ready?”

“He needs it,” Luce answers for Cas. “Just getting his damned tie properly tied takes 15 minutes all by itself.”

Cas stares sulkily at the table as both Dean and Sam snigger. 

“Dean had us do drill runs,” Sam offers. “He allowed 2 minutes tops from wake up to being out of wherever we were sleeping. When we were roughing it, we got run off ever so often and if anything got left behind we couldn’t get it back.”

“Yeah. Not only when we were roughing it. At times we shared apartments with real shady types,” Dean adds. “Then there could come a tip a police raid was about to hit, and some shit you don’t want to get mixed up in, you know?”

“So you helped Cas tie his tie?” Luce asks with an amused smirk, still stuck on the detail of Cas being ready so quickly.

“Can we please not talk about this,” Cas protests, cheeks colouring once again, but this time out of embarrassment.

“You failed to remember to comb your hair,” Luce teases.

“Oh, come on. I like his sex hair!” Dean defends.

“Did you have sex?” Sam asks… _hopefully_? What the―?

“No.”  
“No.”

Both Dean and Cas answer at the same time, both sounding equally displeased.

“Are you sure?” Sam probes. As if he could change the answer by asking again.

“Now, now, Sammy. If Cas says they didn’t, they didn’t,” Luce all but purrs.

“Yeah. Mr. Workaholic over here ain’t got his priorities straight,” Dean confirms and pokes a thumb in Cas’ direction. Luce gives Sam a shiteating grin and Sam throws Dean a spectacular bitchface before pulling up 100 bucks out of his pocket and handing to Luce. “Wait. You had _money_ riding on whether or not Cas and I would bone?”

“It was more a bet about who knew their brother the best,” Luce corrects. “Since the both of you were making moon eyes at each other during dinner, Sam said you’d be jumping each other’s bones in no time. I told him _my_ lil bro would find a way to screw it up for himself, and Sam claimed that Cas’ couldn’t screw it up since he was visibly interested, and that would make you undeterred.”

“Pfft. A guy says he doesn't want to, I don't push it,” Dean scoffs.

“You told him you didn't want to?” Luce queries Cas in surprise. 

“I told him I had to finish work first.”

Lucifer tuts. “There's such thing as a quickie, brother dear.”

“Heathens. Both of you,” Cas mutters, but doesn’t really appear bothered by the teasing and both Sam and Luce are amused by Cas’ faux grumpiness.

Dean doesn’t know how to feel about this. Pissed at Sam for making this wager. Pissed at himself for failing to make Sam win it. If he’d known there was money riding on it he’d have been more persistent. Pissed at Cas for rejecting him yesterday, money or not. And pissed at both Sam and Luce for meddling. Definitely pissed at Lucifer for echoing his own sentiment towards Cas. He opens his mouth to chew them out but a waitress stops by their table and prevents his outburst. “Good morning, gentlemen. Ready to order?”

They all order Turducken Slammers and juice, and Cas and Dean orders coffee too. After that hunger kills conversation for a little while. When they’re all finished Luce speaks. “So. You’ve got the stuff?”

Dean takes the keycard and the flash drive from his pocket and lays them on the table.

“And the key?”

“There was no key. That’s all there was inside. I promised I’d deliver and I did. So if you just uphold your part of the deal, we’ll walk away and everyone’s happy.”

Except, no one at the table looks happy. Not even Dean. That stupid, dejected feeling about never seeing Cas again rolls around in his belly like a ball of twisting worms. It’s fucked up. He wonders what the hell is wrong with him? What the hell has changed since he got into that car yesterday? Nothing. Just his stupid, stupid, _stupid_ feelings that don't make sense.

Luce purses his lips thoughtfully and exchanges a glance with Cas, then with Sam who looks like a kicked puppy, before finally looking back at Dean. “I believe our exact words were to deliver the three items we wanted… and the key’s still missing.”

“We’ll get it. We just need to know where to look,” Sam hastens to assure.

Of course, unaware Sam would offer to finish the job. Dean’s drilled him to do that. Reputation is vital on the street and being trustworthy has served the Winchesters well in the past. They’ve got honour. “Hold on. You’re not going after the key, Sammy. You’re gonna stay safe somewhere while I get it, okay?” Well fuck. He should be arguing that breaking in at that local Garrison was the job, not jumping on the chance to _prolong_ this farce. Whelp. Whattaya know?

“Dean,” Sam protests.

“No. That’s how it’s gonna be. _I_ made the deal. _I’ll_ see it through.” Yeah, no. He didn’t really make the deal, but whatever.

“It might prove difficult, though,” Luce muses, troubled. He side-eyes Sam with a concerned look. “If the key wasn’t in the safe, there’s only one other place it could be. And that’s hanging in a chain around the neck of a very dangerous man.”

“Do we know of Micha’s current whereabouts?” Cas asks Luce. He’s been mostly quiet until now, only making himself known by the steady press of his leg against Dean’s.

“No. But Bal should know,” Lucifer states.

Dean has an idea and goes with it. “So you and I go find this Bal guy, while Cas and Sam go get paper copies of all important papers to our new identities.” (That Cas had insisted they get themselves. Hah!) “And Cas, you need to write a cheat sheet about our pasts and get those printed. That paper trail you laid out is a whole life I haven’t lived and I need to memorize it if I’m gonna lie convincingly about it.”

Cas scoffs. “I’m not going to―”

“Yes, you are,” Luce cuts in. “That’s what we’ll do. And while Dean and I find out where we can find Micha, you and Sam set up a new base for us as well. I’m thinking Hartmann’s?”

“Very well.” Cas doesn’t look happy about it. Nevertheless, he defers to his older brother’s order. Dean’s a 100% certain that’s a mafia hierarchy thing, rather than a brotherly one.

Lucifer turns towards Sam with a serious expression. “I had not foreseen that the key wouldn’t be stored with the rest of the items. It changes things and makes it much more dangerous. The man that will be carrying it, is powerful and very well protected. We’ll aim to not make ourselves known to him, but Castiel will act as your bodyguard in case something happens while we’re away. Be assured that Cas is one of the fastest and most accurate shooters you’ll ever come across. You’ll be safe with him. I’ll have Dean’s back, so you’ll get him back safe and sound too.”

Okay. Something about this reassurance is just weird. Why would Lucifer reveal to Sam that they’re bad ass enough to pull off the job themselves, when they’d told him the reason they got Dean to do it, was that it was outside their area of expertise? 

Sam seems to pick up on something too. He looks at Luce with concerned bemusement, then at Dean, then at Cas, then at Luce and finally Dean again. “There’s something you guys aren’t telling me.”

Time to push his luck. “Mhm. We’re going up against the frigging mob,” Dean says. “And guess what? The Garrison? Their front.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot upward. “No way! The Garrison is run by the mob?”

“Yup.”

“But that might mean that mom…?”

“Seems likely.”

“And perhaps dad...?”

“I’m thinking it.”

“Maybe Raphael…?”

“Oh, definitely. The Angelus are all top tiers, from what I’m seeing,” Dean hedges. He can feel the tension coming from both the Angelus brothers now, even if they’re keeping their body language amicable. Lucifer’s eyes are sharp and locked on him. Dean’s not fooled by his pleasant little smile. Sam and Dean just had a conversation that said a lot more than the few words they uttered, that their company couldn’t quite follow. It doesn’t matter. Sam deserves to know there’s danger here. Dean will be a good boy and leave out the part where he’s being blackmailed into doing this job, but Sam still needs to know what _level_ of danger. “Almost got taken out by a mobster during the heist. If it wasn’t for Cas he’d had shot me in the back. ‘Twas a pretty damned cool shot. Nicked me in the ear and bull’s eyed the fucker in the forehead.” He turns his head so Sam can get his first look at the crescent in Dean’s ear. 

Sam makes an upset little noise. “You almost got killed and you didn’t think to mention it before?!”

Yep. There comes the bitchface. Just as expected. “Didn’t want to fray your princess-nerves. Anyway, what these guys are up to, will give the Garrison one hell of a burn,” Dean hedges and gestures between Luce and Cas. “But I need you to know, that we _are_ up against the mafia. We fuck up and we’re dead. You still in?”

Sam’s face turns hard and determined. “ _Yes._ ”

“Good. Anything happens, you check in with Auntie May. Otherwise, we keep in touch via Luce and Cas until you’ve gotten your hands on a phone. Okay?” Meaning, anything happens, Sam’s to get himself to the next town over and check into room 13 in the first motel in the phonebook. He’s also meant to get himself a new phone asap. Sam might not yet be aware they’re working with the enemy, but at least he’s got a heads up.

“Got it.”

“Well, well…” Lucifer leans back in his chair, drapes an arm over the backrest of Sam’s chair and stares coldly at Cas. “Seems like my brother’s been quite a little chatterbox.”

Cas sputters indignantly. “I didn’t―!”

“Nah, man,” Dean cuts in with a smirk towards Luce. “You threw that Pokeball yelling ‘I choose you, Dean Winchester’, you got my smarts as a bonus. I can put two and two together. We’ve got a common enemy to take down. And as long as Sammy’s safe, my services are yours. Our meeting was fated, remember?” He leans back in his chair too, draping his own arm over Cas’ backrest in mimicry of Lucifer’s pose. He might just have done the most stupid, suicidal move of his life, revealing that he knows more than he should while upsetting the power balance, acting bossy towards Cas. He’s kicking the beehive, challenging Lucifer. Though, he has an ulterior motive, albeit a vague one. (And it isn’t to fool around with Cas, believe it or not.) He had an idea when he suggested he and Luce work together. It all hinges on Cas’ being too attached to him to be ready to see them killed, and that Cas has properly conveyed that to Luce. It’s quite a gamble.

Luce scrutinizes Dean for a long time, noting the arm around Cas, as well as the thumb Dean hadn’t even consciously noted that he’s stroking Cas’ shoulder with. Sam leans forward, putting a hand over Cas’ hand in an earnest gesture. “Thank you for saving Dean’s life, Cas. It means a lot to me, knowing you had his back. Not everyone we’ve worked with is as dependable.” 

Cas squirms slightly, visibly uncomfortable. He should be, if he has a heart. Dean very much doubts he gave a fuck about whether Dean bit the bullet or not, at that time. “I was only upholding my part of the deal…”

Dean chuckles and breaks the gaze he’d had locked with Luce to turn his attention to Cas instead. “Nah, babe. That ain’t the driver’s job. But you did good.” He grabs Cas by the tie and pulls him in for a quick kiss. Cas makes an indignant sound of protest, blush rising. Dean lets go of him before he can push Dean away. It’s supposed to be theater for Lucifer’s benefit, but it doesn’t stop the thrill at the brief touch of lips. Dean’s so fucked. “You ready to roll?” Dean asks Lucifer.

“I am.” Luce looks at Cas. “Take care of our bill.” He stands up, looks around and then turns to Sam and holds out his hand. “Give me your gun, Sammy.”

Dean’s brain screeches to a halt. _Sam’s got a gun on him?_

“Yes, Sir.” Sam looks around to see that no one’s watching before pulling the gun from the back of his jeans and obediently hand it over. Luce puts it under his belt and buttons his suit jacket over it. Dean’s heart starts racing. That gun had been in a locker at the train station. Sam and Lucifer must have retrieved it yesterday, and… _Lucifer had let him keep it_??? What does that even mean?

“Good. Let Cas’ protect you if the need arises. I’ll be in touch in a couple of hours.” Luce winks at Sam, receiving a brilliant grin in response, that makes Dean want to grit his teeth. 

Dean knows he’s missing something. That just doesn’t add up. Is this theater too, for his benefit? Sure as hell looks like it.

“Alright. Let’s get this show going,” Dean says, takes Cas’ credit card from his pocket and throws it in front of him on the table while winking cheekily. Cas’ expression of ‘ _But… HOW?_ ’ is priceless. He gives Sam a sloppy salute and heads for the door. Lucifer joins him, walking next to him.

Lucifer doesn’t say anything. He hits the keyfob, unlocking the car, side eyes Dean with a knowing smirk and gestures for Dean to take the passenger seat.

Now Dean’s starting to get really nervous. He went with his gut feeling, playing out his cards like he had. He hopes he did. He hopes he didn’t mistake gut feeling for dick feeling. Because if he did, they’re screwed…

* * *


	9. CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT

* * *

  **CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT**

* * *

With Cas no longer present Dean puts the baseball cap on the right way and hangs the Oakleys on his collar. No need to look like a complete douchewad if it isn’t going to get him laid.

Lucifer drives in silence. Expression unreadable, lips quirked the tiniest fraction upward and eyelids heavy, eyes on the road but with an air of focusing on Dean. The silence stretches like a rubber band, further and further.

It forces Dean to think about what he’d done. He’d let them know he knows things he’s not supposed to know. He’d offset the power balance by bossing Cas around, giving orders and acting proprietary in front of Luce. He’d basically slapped his own dick on the table hollering ‘Mine’s bigger!’ He’d tried to make it come off as if both he and Sam would cooperate and be loyal even with this slight rebellion.

Half of that show had been promptly countered by Lucifer ordering Sam around, getting an eager ‘Yessir!’ in response. What’s up with that? What the hell took place between the two of them yesterday? Why did Luce allow him to have a gun and why would Sam, I-hate-authorities-with-a-passion Sam, fall all over himself to please the older man? Because he really had. Fuck, but he’d been at ease with Lucifer. Yes, Sam had gone into this thing thinking they were all friends. But Sam is usually politely reserved towards people, not… not… _adoring_? Shit, but Dean should have listened more closely when Sam gushed about Lucifer.

Sweat is starting to coat Dean’s face and neck. Lucifer is fucking mafia. Dean had challenged him. Chess pieces had been moved around. Dean aimed to remove the whole coercion part of the deal. He wants it more equal. He wants to get to know Cas better. And he wants truths. He realises that they’ve never been so close to anyone who can give them the truth about who’s really to blame for all the shit they’ve gone through.

But stepping up to boss Cas around might have been perceived as a threat, guaranteeing their deaths. Knowing too much… yeah, it might all have been a really fucking bad idea to reveal. Maybe he should have dropped the knowledge that Luce and Cas are named Angelus to Sam. By his reaction, he didn’t know. Dean wouldn’t know had he not seen the content of Cas’ wallet.

His heart is racing. He questions his move. Regrets it more, the longer the silence stretches. He needed to get Lucifer to talk because it’s obvious Cas bends to his will. Cas acted a lot more cool and savvy around Luce, as if Luce feeds him confidence and helps him read people. Cas sucks at reading people but he reads Luce just fine and takes his cues. That’s Dean’s conclusion spending time with both of them compared hanging with Cas alone. So he needs the dangerous fuckface by his side to approve of him.

Luce suddenly chuckles darkly. “Interesting.”

“What?”

“I thought you were just stupid, but seems you’re aware of your folly and were acting brave.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Luce smirks and reaches out to drag a finger along Dean’s cheek. The move startles Dean and he cringes away from the touch before he can help himself, turning his head to glare at Luce. Luce smirk grows wider. He looks at Dean in amusement, holding up the finger he’d touched Dean with. A droplet of sweat clings to it. “Yes, you do, smatterer,” he states and dries off his finger on Dean’s thigh before putting his hand on the gearshift, demonstrating that Dean’s way beneath him.

Busted. Luce knows he’s nervous and scared. No wonder he looks so amused. Whelp. The dice have been thrown. Dean won’t be put in place until he’s satisfied with the place he’s put in. He snorts. “This Micha guy. Is he a cousin or a brother?”

Luce hums, looking at the road. “It’s irrelevant.”

Dean scrutinizes him. The slight tension between Lucifer’s shoulder blades, neutral expression… “An older brother, then.”

“What makes you think that?”

Okay. Time to keep being brave and possibly stupid. “Cas displayed contempt for your cousins when he and I spoke, but you mentioned Micha in passing yesterday, saying something about charm working even though it makes you memorable. You sounded like you held respect and fondness for the dude, so, not a cousin. Then you tell Sam he's dangerous and powerful, seeming troubled about it. For you to see him as dangerous he has to be an Arch, like yourself, or you could have pulled rank on him. He's got access to the key, and you don’t, which makes me think he outranks you. Hence, older, since you’re born into your line of work.”

Lucifer’s jaw is ticking. “How much did you know about the Garrison before you got into my car, jellybean?”

“Only that it was a big corporation responsible for destroying our lives.”

“I find it surprising that a man with your potential is such a small time criminal,” Luce muses.

Dean scowls. “It’s because I’m not interested in power and riches. Look. Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we?”

“Mhm?” Lucifer raises an eyebrow at him, inviting him to speak.

“At first I was confused about how much time Cas invested in creating identities for us. I was convinced you’d off me the moment you got your hands on the objects. But Cas had every chance in the world to get ‘em while I was sleeping, and he didn’t. So you’re planning to uphold your part of the deal you made for yourselves. But it doesn’t really add up, right? Cuz you’re the ‘You’ll scratch my back, I’ll scratch my back’ kinda folks.” That sentiment makes Luce snicker and send him an amused look. Dean goes on. “But I figured it out, okay? Destiny dropped the perfect decoy in your lap. Since I committed the heist and almost got nabbed, there’s a vague description of me. The Garrison folks will be searching for me, first and foremost. You’d let me go and let your pals chase me down like greyhounds chasing a hare. By the time they caught me it would no longer matter if I mentioned your name because you don’t need secrecy, you just need time to do what you planned to do before I dumped myself in your lap. And the identities you’re giving us are so well done, representing the dream life, that you were sure we were going to use them. Which in turn give you the power to find and trace us. If your enemies came sniffing too close to home too soon, all you had to do was drop my new name and they’d go after me instead.”

Lucifer purses his lips thoughtfully. “So… if you think this is the plan… why do you think it’s a wise choice telling me you, supposedly, know about it?”

“Because of Sam. I want to do renegotiate. And before you start, yes, I know I’m not in a position to do so. Ain’t got no leverage. But I still want to. And think about it. It’s better for you if I’m a willing lure, than if I’m trying to get back at you.” Actually, if Cas’ has gotten as attached as Dean’s hoping, and told Lucifer about it, plus if Luce gives a shit about Cas’ feelings on the matter, like Dean thinks, then that’s his leverage.

Luce has an air of amusement. The look he bestows on Dean is one of those creepy, fond ones. “Fair enough. What is it you want, hopeful?”

“Sam goes free. I mean, completely. He was never involved, remember? _I_ hit the Garrison. _I_ tried to carjack you. _I_ will be the one to steal the key for you. He’s just the piece of leverage you hold over me. The identities you made for us make us unrelated. There’s nothing to connect us two if he takes on the name Sam Wesson. He’d have a chance at the life he deserves. You’d still hold leverage over me even after he’s out of the picture since you control that identity. From what I saw tonight, it’d be a piece of cake for Cas to get a warrant for Sam’s arrest, add a substantial credit card debt to his name, or any other fuckery that’d pull the rug from under him. You guys make sure he isn't bitten in the ass by the consequences of my actions and I’ll be your faithful little attack dog. Hell, I’ll let you send me on suicide missions and whatever, doing my damn best to produce whatever outcome you want. Be your private Pokemon or whatever. Since I know you’re going against your own organisation you can’t use your usual expendables, right? Well. Here I am. At your service.”

Lucifer mulls this over with a serious expression, not answering at once. Then suddenly he scrunches his face up in a bemused grimace. “Where do you get these stupid Pokemon references?”

_That’s_ what he gets hung up on? “Dude. You were the one calling me a Neopet.”

Luce sniggers silently, shoulders bouncing from held back mirth. “The word we used was neo _phyte_. And Pokemon and Neopets are not the same.”

“Yeah, well, you’d be the expert,” Dean mutters.

“Hardly,” Luce answers with a grin.

“Can we make a deal or not? I promise, I’ll act like a good little soldier to your General.”

“In that case, you can start by calling me ‘Sir’.”

“Fuck no. I don’t know how you got Sammy to suck your dick, but I ain’t doing it.” Lucifer throws him another highly amused look, so Dean feels compelled to add “ _Metaphorically._ I don’t want your dirty hands touching my lil’ bro, okay? Then all bets are off and you can say goodbye to your balls.”

“Technically, if Sammy’s sucking my dick, I’m not doing the touching, am I?” Luce teases with a sly smirk.

Dean has to remind himself that stabbing his driver in the throat with a pocket knife is an equally bad idea as shooting him. “Ew. Don’t even think about it. Can we get back to the subject?”

“Ah, yes. There are several flaws in your argument, probie. Sam is one of them.”

“How so?”

“I may not know your brother very well, but it only took a day in his company to know that the only reason he’s being a good boy, keeping himself at a safe distance from the heat, is that he thinks the danger is less than it is, and that we gave him tasks to perform. He won’t hide away and take his chance at a normal life without you, should you try. He made me fully aware that you two come as a package deal or not at all. So either you’re trying to fool me into letting my guard down, or you haven’t thought this through.”

“I’d figure something out. Send him on a fool’s errand in another state. Make him go undercover as, I dunno, tech support at a company or something. I’ll claim I’ve heard the company is covering up some kind of pollution problem. He’ll be stuck there trying to investigate until I… um. Whatever happens to me.”

“Until you die, you mean.”

Dean hopes he’d have figured out a way not to, by then. But yes. If anyone’s gonna croak, it won’t be Sam. Hopefully, he’ll be able to get under Cas’ skin. Make himself important. Fuck, he’s really hung up on Cas. What does he expect? That Cas will fall madly in love with him and set him free? (Yes. Yes, he does.) Either way, Luce needs to be won over and should Dean brown-nose him too much, Luce will believe he’s lying and it will all go to shit. (Or that’s what he’s telling himself so he won’t have to suck up too much to the douchewad.) Dean doesn’t answer that statement. What’s the point? They both know that’s what he meant.

“Very well. Your petition has been heard. I’ll think about it. We’re soon at our destination. Why don’t you give me a demonstration of what you’re trying to sell, when we get there?”

Dean refrains from gritting his teeth at Lucifer’s despotic air and smug quirk to his lips.”Got it.”

“Oh, and Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Relax. We’re all friends here, remember?”

The fucker _winks_ at him.

* * *

**2 years ago…**

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Sam jokes from where he’s leaned against a junker, waiting for Dean outside of the prison gates.

Dean grins at him as he approaches, opening his arms for a hug. “Why? Jealous I got a vacay and you didn’t?”

Sam shakes his head with a grin on his face and hugs Dean, warm and backslapping. It never fails to relax Dean. “Only three months again. You’ve got the luck of the devil, Dean.”

“No shit. Jenny, the girl I saved from drowning a week before we did the job? The judge’s niece. Whattaya know. Benny got away alright?”

“He did. He’s safely back in Louisiana with Andrea. Said he owes you a favour. He gave us this car and told us to call if we ever need anything. Told me to put a stress on _anything_.” Big words, coming from a guy like Benny, who’d actually live up to it. Benny’s a smuggler, smuggling by sea, that Dean had gotten to know during his first time behind bars. When Benny found out his girlfriend was pregnant he decided to do one last job, then retire back to his home state. He’d planned on opening a (fully legal) restaurant and leave his life of crime behind. Sam and Dean helped out. Naturally, things had gone to shit and Dean had let himself get caught so the others could get away and the ‘cargo’ (illegal immigrants) could be saved from the cops. The evidence against Dean had been next to non-existent and if he’d had a good lawyer, he would have gotten off scot-free. Public defenders though. The bane of freedom. He’d gotten three months. He could have gotten ten years. But his loyalty and refusal to sell anyone out lent him good street cred. And reputation is fucking important.

“Did he pay us?”

“He tried to.”

“You did what I told you to?”

“Yep.”

Dean had told Sam to refuse payment and demand their share would be put towards a college fund for Benny’s kid. He has a soft spot for anyone who tries to get out. He’d rather see Benny’s kid grow up in a stable home, go to college and get a fucking life, instead of having a dad in prison, following in his footsteps. “That’s my boy.” Dean lets go of Sam and backs away to take in the car. “Wow. I always wanted to own a rusty 86’ Volvo 740 GL estate,” he jokes sarcastically. Honestly, he’s excited about getting it, ugly, old, and rusty as it is. Sam chuckles and hands him the key. Dean walks around and gets in behind the steering wheel. He pats the car on the dashboard. “Just kidding, sweetheart. I’m gonna take good care of you. You’re gonna look good as new when I’m done fixing you up,” he coos affectionately.

“Dude. Your relationship with cars is perverse,” Sam remarks when he gets in and buckles up.

“Whatever, man. She’s gonna be the envy of the neighbourhood when I’m done with her.”

“We’re going to have to move to a junkyard for that to be true,” Sam snarks.

Dean laughs and gives the dashboard an additional pat. “Don’t listen to him, sweetheart. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” She might be a junk car, but she runs, and that’s what’s important. He turns the ignition and the car comes alive with a sputtering sound. (He’s gonna have to fix that.) “So. Where do we live?” he asks Sam and turns the car out on the road.

“We’ve still got the apartment. I’ve been working for Monroe so I could make rent.”

“Great!” Dean enthuses. He’d noticed Sam’s beefed up since Dean last saw him. Working construction explains that.

“Yeah… about that. I was thinking… now that we’ve got a car that isn’t stolen―”

“Way ahead of you, Don Quixote. You’ve found a windmill to fight out of state. We’ll terminate the contract on the apartment and let Rocinante here carry us there,” Dean beams at Sam. The tired, dubiously grey, old Volvo is no Impala, by all means. Rocinante is a suiting name for her.

A slow, lopsided, bemused smile spreads on Sam’s face as he rests his elbow on the windowsill of the rolled down window, looking at Dean. “Yeah… that’s what I was thinking.”

“It’s done. Just you and me and our rusty steed, driving around the country on the open roads, hunting the monsters you find for us in local newspapers, saving the world,” Dean muses with a big grin. A car means total freedom. It’s a wonder they haven’t owned one until now. Somehow buying one always has been deprioritized in favour of something else. But this means they don’t have to live in big cities anymore. They can go _wherever they want_.

Sam laughs. “Oh my God. You’re messed up.”

“What are you talking about? I’m _awesome_! Say, you wouldn’t happen to be planning another hospital raid, are you?”

“ _No_. We’re not breaking into another research facility so you can steal a new lab rat, Dean.” Sam gives him a bitchface.

“I wasn’t suggesting that.” He totally was.

“Yes you were. You wouldn’t let me keep any of the dogs, but you happened to stuff a rat in the kangaroo pocket of your hoodie to keep as a pet? I still don’t get your reasoning for that.”

“Okay, hold on for just one minute. First off, you’d already found homes for the dogs before the raid. Secondly, reasoning had nothing to do with it and you know it. Jensen was suffering. I _had_ to save him. Rats have feelings too, you know?” It’s not like Sam’s life had been affected much. He hadn’t noticed the impulsively acquired pet until two months _after_ the raid. Granted, he’d noticed when Jensen went on a little exploration excursion during the middle of the night and ended up in Sam’s bed. Sam had woken up from the albino rat curiously sniffing his face and Sam, in turn―Bless him―had woken Dean with the most undignified, girly falsetto scream Dean had ever heard from him. In short, it had been hilarious. Jensen scurrying back to Dean’s bed in fright and Sam standing on one leg in the corner of his bed, pressed up against the wall and hugging his blanket like a shield. It had taken Dean nearly half an hour to stop laughing and Sam hadn’t spoken to him for a day, only glared furiously.

Fuck, but Dean misses that smart little booger.

“Jensen was a female, Dean. And you could have left her at a shelter if you were so concerned.”

“Oh, come on. They would have put him down, and you know it.” Sam warmed up to Jensen eventually. He’s just pissy that Dean got to see him freak out like he did. They’ve had this argument a billion times. Dean’s revelling in it. It’s normalcy. It’s home and freedom. Bickering about nonsense with his little brother.

“In that case, you could have…” Sam goes on to give alternatives to shelters. But when he turns his head away from Dean to look out of the open window, wind ruffling his too long hair, Dean catches the smile he’s trying to hide…

* * *

**Present day…**

“Hey, so… can I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead. I might not answer, but you can always ask,” Lucifer offers amicably.

“Your wings are a mark of rank, right? But does the colour blue stand for anything in particular?”

Luce frowns in bemusement for a beat, then his face smooths out. “Ah. You mean because Cas has blue highlights on his. No. The number of wings is significant, but we get to determine the colour and design ourselves.”

“Do everyone working for you have wing tattoos, or only you Angelus bunch?”

“To get three pairs you need to be born an Angelus, but anyone else reaching the rank of Captain get one pair of wings regardless of pedigree. Nobody in the organisation is allowed to have wing tattoos unless they reach that status.” Lucifer is pleasantly forthcoming. “Why? Are you interested in earning a pair? You could, you know? I’m allowed to choose my own captains,” he adds musingly and arches an eyebrow questioningly in Dean’s direction.

Dean replies with another question. “Tattoos as rank insignia seems fucking dumb. How do you demote people?”

Luce lifts his hand from the gearshift, points it at Dean mimicking a gun, and makes a popping sound with his mouth as he pretends to shoot.

_Oh. Yeah, that makes sense, under the circumstances…_

“This Bal guy. He winged?”

“Mhm. Balthazar Angelus. A cousin of ours and one of Micha’s men. He’s got an inflated view of himself. Micha uses him more like a PA than a captain, but he likes to pretend that he’s responsible for more than booking flights and hotels,” Luce answers with faint disdain on his face, grabbing the steering wheel with both hands. “He’s a bit of an asshole. Cas likes him, but I fail to see why.”

“And Micha… how come you don’t know where he is?”

Luce presses his lips together to a thin line. He doesn't answer at once. Then he relaxes. “I suppose it's only fair to give you some background, since you’re going to be stealing from him.” (Hah! Like Lucifer would give a shit about fairness.) “You already know the Garrison is a nationwide corporation, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that our illegal endeavours are nationwide as well. Unlike many of our competitors, our front isn’t a hoax. The Garrison is a fully working, successful company. As good for money laundry and hiding shady activity, as it is for _making_ money, legally.”

Dean nods. The ‘legally’ part is questionable, considering the insane interest rate they’d given the Winchesters on their debt. Well. They had had the law on their side. But it had been nothing short of robbery, either way. “I figured.”

“Of course you did, puppy. Don’t interrupt, or I’ll have you play guessing games about the rest, since you seem so keen to do so,” Lucifer reprimands with vexation.

Dean grits his teeth not to spit a ‘Fuck you!’ at him, and envisions how good it would feel to clock the fucker with a left hook. “Sorry. Please, go on.”

Luce side-eyes him and smirks when he sees Dean’s held back temper. “Very well. The so-called Archs are underbosses, each having their own jurisdiction, governing their own states or areas. There are currently four exceptions that all have overseeing roles, to make sure we remain one entity.”

“Micha is one of them, right? Travelling all over, making surprise visits to keep the other Archs on their toes. That’s why you don’t know where he is. You’re not supposed to know. Brother or not,” Dean hedges before he can stop himself.

Lucifer chuckles. “I see the message about interrupting didn’t sink in. But, yes. Quite right, trifler.”

That puts a nasty spin on things. Messing with the mob is one thing, but messing with one of the most powerful ones? Yep. Dean’s gonna die for sure. “And your big boss? Does he call himself God, or something?” Dean jokes to alleviate his nerves.

“He did, as a title,” Luce answers without a trace of humour. “But dad died from a stroke not long ago and we haven’t yet decided who should replace him of the big four. Micha is the most likely candidate, though. He’s the youngest at 37, and most well liked by all the branches of the family. The others, Uriel, Metatron, and Zachariah, are assholes and too concerned with putting their own offspring in all the leading positions whether they’re suited for it or not. Michael on the other hand, was dad’s favourite, and knows how to charm those he can’t intimidate. I doubt Micha will lose this race.”

Dean can’t imagine how much of an asshole you need to be to be deemed an asshole by someone like _Lucifer_. “Man, you’re suckers for weird names. Wait, you said Michael? That’s Micha’s real name?”

“Yes.” Luce switches on the blinkers and turns the car to park beside the curb outside of a bar. “We’re here. It’s past 11 AM, so I think we’ll find Bal in here. Time to shine, tyro.”

Dean’s frantically trying to calculate what all the information he’s gotten means for his and Sam’s chances of survival. Sometimes knowing more _isn’t_ better, it just puts more targets on your back. Plus if Luce isn’t lying to him, it looks more like Luce and Cas really are out to turn against their own, not to make a power grab. If the organisation is without a clear leader, it’s the perfect opportunity to do a heist and slip away in the confusion. Dean wishes he’d never tried to carjack Lucifer. Worst case scenario he’d be safely locked up in holding cell right now. Instead, he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place, wondering what piece of knowledge was going to lead to his death.

Lucifer cuts the ignition and studies him with a knowing smirk. He unbuttons his suit jacket and pulls out Sam’s gun, then hands it to Dean. Dean takes it, trying to hide his surprise. But then again, knowing what he knows now, he can’t exactly shoot Lucifer. Mafia underboss? Brother to the probable would-be boss? It doesn’t matter if Luce is about to turn on his own. Dean doesn’t think they know it yet, so if Dean―an outsider―should smoke him, most likely they’d hunt him down like a dog for shooting one of their own. “Isn’t this exactly what you asked me for, maverick?” Luce purrs. Then the fucking shithead pats his knee condescendingly, winks and gets out of the car.

It was. _Fuck._ Be careful what you wish for and all that shit...

* * *


	10. DICKS WITH WINGS

* * *

**DICKS WITH WINGS**

* * *

The bar is all kinds of tacky. It looks more like a whorehouse than a bar. Red velvet, golden tassels, shady booths, sofas with lion’s feet, armchairs big enough for two, heavy drapes as partitioners in some places. Come to think of it, it might actually _be_ a brothel. It looks like a place that wants to look classy and sexy but misses the mark by miles. It’s closed, but not locked. There’s only one person visible inside.

A blond man lounges in a booth by the wall opposite the entrance. He’s wearing black jeans, and a black suit jacket hanging open over a tight white tee with a way too deep V-neck. All topped off with a grey cashmere scarf hanging open. His hair is tousled in the I-spent-too-long-in-front-of-the-mirror-trying-to-look-like-I-don’t-care kinda way. Dean will admit that if it wasn’t for the V-neck dipping so low, he’d have found the look classy. Now instead his mind goes ‘Ew. No.’ He’s not influenced by knowing Luce doesn’t like him. He’s _not_ , okay? Besides, didn’t Luce say Cas likes this guy? Dean should give him a chance, at least.

Lucifer walks one step ahead of him, aiming for the man in the booth. It hits Dean then, that it’s all wrong. It doesn’t match up with Dean’s theory about them being let go as lures when the Angelus are done with him. Because going in together means Luce reveals his own association with Dean, meaning that when Luce and Cas have done whatever they’re planning to do, their peers are more likely to look for them first, _then_ the Winchesters. And that’s… bad. It’s bad, since it means Dean hasn’t got a clue what Luce is thinking. The control Dean thought he had over the situation is rapidly slipping away, mentally sending him back to the drawing board. 

Sure, some things don't change. He still needs Luce to like him enough not to want him dead in a ditch. And thoughts of Cas still makes something itch under his skin. Sam still needs to be protected. But Luce had lied to Sam when he said they’d aim not to make themselves known to Micha. Walking right up to one of his captains asking for him isn’t exactly stealth genius. All Dean can do now is play along.

The blond man―presumably Bal―looks a few years older than Luce. He smiles when he sees them and sets down the glass of red wine he was sipping. He twists to face them and spreads his arms welcomingly. “Luci, mon cher cousin! What a nice surprise!”

Luce answers with a wide, close-lipped smile. “Isn’t it, though?” he answers and stretches an arm out to offer a hand to shake when he’s close enough. He may look amicable enough, but he keeps as much distance between their bodies as he possibly can.

Bal isn’t allowing that. He takes the offered hand, but stands up and uses the handshake to pull Luce in for a one-armed hug while he gives Luce two kisses on the cheeks, one on each side. 

Dean keeps his face neutral while he internally yet again goes ‘Ew. No.’ Considering what Luce had said about Bal in the car, Luce probably shares the sentiment. Dean refrains from sniggering. _Serves him right._

“Please. Have a seat,” Bal says as they step apart. He throws a look at Dean and gets a twinkle in his eyes. “My, oh my. I do say, this one’s pretty. But I’d never thought I’d see you slumming it, Luci. Or is this another one of your pet projects?”

Fuck giving Bal a chance! Dean hates him. Fucking prick. Dean grins cheekily. “Oh be nice. You’re just jealous ‘cause you think Luce gets to see the colour of my wings and you don’t,” he deadpans and winks at Bal, implying they’re both captains to an Arch. He’d rather plant his fist in the guy’s face. He would, if he thought it’d get them anywhere.

There’s a flash of surprise at the mention of wings, then Bal’s smile grows. He opens his mouth to speak but Luce forestalls him. “Bal, this is Jason Teague. Jay, this is Balthazar Angelus,” he introduces and gestures between them.

Dean offers his hand to shake. Bal takes it, but instead of shaking it he bows over it, gaze locked with Dean’s, and kisses the knuckles. “Enchanté.”

_Ew. No._

Dean smiles and resists the urge to dry his hand off on his clothes when Bal releases it. 

They sit down on the mahogany chairs with velvet-clad seat cushions. Luce opposite Bal and Dean beside Luce. Dean removes his baseball cap and puts it on the table beside himself. “My my. This really _is_ a surprise,” Bal muses while he looks at Luce. “Shouldn't you still be in San Quentin for another 20 years?” he asks with a lopsided little smirk.

_Wow. That’s low. There sure ain’t no love lost between these two._

Bal and Luce might be smiling at each other, but there are tells in their body language, showing Dean that both of them would rather throw a punch. Bal put a slight stress on ‘shouldn’t’ that changed the sentence to ‘I wish you were’.

Somehow it surprises Dean to hear Lucifer’s been in prison. Maybe it shouldn't, since he's a mobster and all. He just doesn’t strike Dean as the guy to get caught.

Luce smiles another wide, faux warm, close-lipped smile. “You haven’t heard? Micha got me out months ago. Guess you’re out of the loop.”

Dean snorts in amusement at the insult, drawing a flicked glance from both of them. 

Bal makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Oh, I’ve had more important things to keep track of,” he says lightheartedly and grabs his glass of wine. “Although, I must extend my condolences. I heard Mark didn’t survive your absence,” he offers in mock sympathy and sips the red wine.

Luce shrugs carelessly. “She was just a snake,” he dismisses. Then he smirks, giving Bal a meaningful look. “There are too many snakes in this world. They’re easily replaced, should one go missing. And nobody would mourn.”

That’s a threat if Dean ever heard one. He might not follow the spoken conversation, ( _Mark? She?_ ) but he has no problem following the unspoken one.

Bal draws breath as to reply, but seems to change his mind about what to say. “Oh, where are my manners? Can I offer you something to drink?” he coos instead. “Some wine perhaps?”

“I don’t think so.”

And, yeah, maybe Dean should keep his mouth shut. But Bal is rubbing him the wrong way. And he might have been amused by Lucifer’s aversion to the cheek kisses, but it’s obvious Bal’s jabbing at what he thinks will be sore spots, and for all intents and purposes, Dean and Luce are currently on the same team. So Dean smiles and says to Luce, “Oh, come on, Sir. Let’s take him up on the offer. It’s only 11 o’clock. It’d be rude to let him embarrass himself by being the only one sad enough to drink before lunch.”

Luce grins and gives him a look of fond amusement. “You’re right, Jay. I wouldn’t want to come off as rude towards my dear cousin.” He turns to look at Bal with a pleasant smile. “Yes, please. I’m parched.”

“Excellent,” Bal says, giving Dean a baring of teeth that could only be called a smile by the truly clueless. He whistles a sharp, high note. Not long after a server comes out from the kitchen door beside the bar. He stops by the table facing Bal, waiting for directions as if Dean and Luce didn’t exist. The place is closed and there are no prep noises coming from the kitchen. Dean wonders if the server is here solely to wait on Bal. “Ah. There you are. Bring us two glasses of Chateau Petrus 2010 for my guests, will you? On second thought…” Bal looks at Dean. “Does your kind even drink wine? Or should I ask for a Budweiser?” he asks charmingly.

“I’ll trust your judgement. Whatever you want to see pass my lips, will do.” Dean bites his lip over a flirty smile, gaze playful.

Bal seems temporarily taken aback by his insult being countered by flirting. He quickly recovers and shifts his attention to the server. “Two glasses of wine it is.” He snaps his fingers. “Now. We haven’t got all day.”

The server bows and hastens away. Bal looks at Dean with an interested smirk, reevaluating. Dean thinks he’s trying to figure out if Dean’s actually flirting, up to no good, or both. Dean’s too intent on figuring Bal out to pay attention to Luce, so he is taken by surprise when Luce drapes an arm over Dean’s backrest and touches a thumb to his upper arm possessively.

“Sir?” Dean asks, turning his head to look at Luce. Luce responding smile tells him exactly nothing. However, the smile Luce directs at Bal half a beat later tells him a whole lot more.

 _I hope you get that this is just a game, Luce. Because if you touch me like this when we’re alone, I’ll stab you,_ Dean thinks and leans back, making himself ‘comfortable’ in Lucifer’s hold.

“I didn’t think you’d ever touch your pets, Luci. Are you granting wings for performing good fellatio nowadays?” Bal challenges, all wrapped in charm and smugness.

“Funny how you, when you talk like that, will never find out,” Dean deadpans, using the same charming demeanor as Bal, but toning down the arrogance, exchanging it for playfulness.

Luce chuckles. “Perhaps. But hey, that would give you two something in common, wouldn’t it?”

“ _Pfft._ ” Bal looks about to sneer something, but changes his mind, looking at Dean again. “Well… it would be foolish to deny my talents in present company,” he says and arches an eyebrow suggestively at Dean. For some reason it makes Luce tense up. Only slightly. Dean wouldn’t have noticed had he not been leaned back onto his arm.

“Of course not,” Luce agrees leeringly. “Certainly not when you’ve got so few of them. Ah. Here are our refreshments,” he chirps as the server comes back with their wine, cutting off any chance of a smooth comeback from Bal. 

Bal waves the server off as soon as he’s put the glasses down. “Jay, why don’t you try the wine and tell us what you think of it?” he offers instead of answering Luce’s insult. The way he smiles makes it feel like a trap.

Dean lifts the glass and sends a questioning look at Luce, getting a minuscule nod in return. So Dean sniffs the wine to start with. “Hmm… It shows elegance in the nose... with a complexity of black olives, dark fruits, and flowers.” He takes a sip, sloshing it in his mouth before swallowing. “...Loads of mulberry, coffee, liquorice and black cherry notes with an overlay of enormous amounts of glycerin and depth. ...Rich, full-bodied and tannic, with a Burgundian mouthfeel,” he muses. Both mobsters are staring at him now. If they hadn’t been the types to control their expressions they’d be slack-jawed. Just to mess with them further he grins and adds “In short, good shit.” He finishes his show―and it is a show, because he doesn’t like red wine very much―by lifting his glass in a short toast towards Bal, then taking a big mouthful, swallowing it like he thinks Bal had anticipated he’d do. He’s got Benny to thank for teaching him how to bullshit his way through wine tasting when they visited his restaurant a year ago.

Luce lifts his own glass, sniffs, takes a thoughtful sip, then makes a sturgeon face, conceding to Dean’s bullshitting. Huh.

“My, my. This slumdog is housebroken. Where did you find this one, Luci? Your last one didn’t know how to pee on the pad.” It’s pretty spectacular how Bal manages to both sound genuinely impressed and deliver insults to the both of them at the same time.

“Where I always find them, dear Bal. In clear view for those with brains to separate gold from gravel. Say, I heard…” 

It takes fifteen more minutes of (sometimes poorly) veiled trash talk, dubious flirting (between Bal and Dean), and fake smiles before Luce finally approaches the subject they came here for. Dean’s zoning out a bit since Bal’s bragging about some racehorse he owns, and he previously talked about ‘Cassie’, which led Dean to drift into thoughts about Cas. Okay, so maybe he zoned out a bit too much, because he almost misses Lucifer switching the subject.

“...my brother. Come on, Bal. I’ve been out for months and haven’t had a chance to thank him. He’d want to talk to me.”

Bal smirks and takes an envelope out of his inner breast pocket. “Ooh. Yes, mon cher cousin, I suppose he would.” He plays with the envelope, stroking its edges almost sensuously, teasingly. “I suppose his itinerary would help you finally get in touch with him. Have an overdue brotherly reunion. Maybe finally kiss and make up, hmm?” Smugness practically oozes out of him. He pockets the envelope again. “I’m afraid I can’t give it to you. But I’ll tell you what. If you go back to your jurisdiction, I’ll pass along the message that you want to see him, and he’ll come find you where you belong.” Bal’s smirk is all edge and teeth.

Something of what he said finally hit in a vulnerable spot because Luce drops all pretense of amity and glares bone-chillingly at Bal. It’s a good reminder or how scary he can be, and that Dean shouldn’t forget that. Dean swears the room temperature drops several degrees from the sheer coldness Lucifer radiates. “You’ll do well to remember even captains can be demoted if they’re caught trying to fuel internal conflict,” Luce tells Bal, stands up and gives Dean a backhand slap on the shoulder. “Jay. We’re leaving,” he commands, then pushes past Dean’s chair and strides towards the exit without a backwards look.

Bal’s covering up his gleeful triumph with moderate success.

Dean stands up slowly and takes his baseball cap from the table, feigning regret. “Sorry ‘bout that, Bal. I’m sure we’d get along much better without him around, and I’m tempted to stick around to find out, but the boss said to go so…”

Bal stands up, quick to intercept Dean’s retreat, just like Dean hoped. “I’m sure we would, Jay. Why not come by and let me treat you to another bottle of fine wine, should you find yourself in my part of the world without a babysitter?”

“I could be up for that,” Dean answers with a flirtily arched eyebrow.

Bal takes something out of his pocket and holds it to Dean. “Here. Let me give you my card.” He throws a look towards the entrance, something wicked and malicious gleaming in his eyes, and when Dean takes the card he’s pulled into a hug. He reciprocates, feeling slimy all over for it. “Give me a call, whether you just want to have fun, or be set up in a new, more stable jurisdiction,” Bal whispers then gives him a kiss on each cheek.

Dean steps away from him, gives him a sloppy salute and a smirk, then turns and jogs to the exit. Luce is waiting by the car, having stared at them through the window, looking like a thunderstorm.

* * *

**6 months ago…**

“Dean. Are you crying?” Sam asks, giving him a puppy-eyed look.

Annoyedly Dean rubs at those incriminating tears stinging his eyes. “I’m not crying. It’s the smoke, okay?” Nevermind that the smoke is blowing the other direction. Rocinante is burning merrily and they should leave the scene. It’s almost funny how a car thief like himself got his first legal car fucking stolen. It’s bad enough that the thief crashed her. He didn’t have to set the car on fucking _fire_. Most likely it’s been used in a crime and the car was torched to hide evidence. Dean gets that. But still. He _loved_ that car. All the hours he’d put in to restore her to her former glory (as much as a Volvo could be said to have glory, but whatever), until she was purring like a cat in his hands - all going up in smoke. Literally.

Sam nods understandingly and stands a bit closer so their shoulders are brushing in silent support. It’s stupid, crying over a damned car. They’ll get a new one. Buy one. Dean doesn’t care if he has to get the money from working or armed robbery. He wants the freedom back.

He hadn’t cried when Jensen died and he still misses that silly rat. Rats only live for about two years and the little fella had been an adult when Dean rescued him. He’d stuck around for one and a half year, so he’d died of old age. Dean hadn’t cried because he’d given the fucker a good life with lots of love.

He’s crying now and it’s not for the reason Sam thinks. He loved that car, yes, but in truth, it’s more about losing dad all over again. The more time that passed since dad died, the more the bad memories faded and the good ones stood out. Tinkering with Rocinante had taken him down memory lane every time.

“We should go,” Sam says quietly. If they stay they might get busted for somebody else’s crime. 

“Yeah…” Dean turns around and starts walking in the direction they’d come from, turning his back to the burning car wreck. Sam walks quietly beside him, still close enough to brush shoulders. Dad taught Dean how to fix cars. Dean has memories of that from as far back as four years old. The Impala’s hood open, dad carrying him on his hip, pointing down in the engine, naming parts, explaining them. He’d point at parts he’d previously explained, asking Dean about them, grinning like a proud loon every time Dean got it right. Other memories, not quite as old, but old still. Dad standing above overseeing when Dean changed his first car battery, then, as he grew older, the things Dean got to do got more advanced, and dad was always equally proud when he got it right, and always patient explaining, showing how to. This was the kind of memories tinkering with Rocinante had brought. But not only car-related memories. Dad and him in the audience when Sam appeared in his first school play, dad yelling encouragements from the sideline when Dean played games with the various sports teams he was on in school. Dad had done that for a long time. Even when he started taking double shifts, he’d leave work to come watch Dean play, then go straight back to work after the game. Dean dries his eyes. “So I guess we’re stuck here for a while now. There wouldn’t happen to be some imminent environmental threat nearby that you need to crusade against, would there, Sammy?”

“Um. Actually, there might be. I dunno, I’ve only heard rumours this far.”

“Yeah? Guess I better get myself a job, huh?” Dean says, faking a lopsided smile he doesn’t feel.

Sam huffs and gives Dean a small smile tinged with sympathy and sadness. “I guess…” He doesn’t say anything about Dean having perverted feelings for cars, doesn’t offer to talk about emotions, doesn’t make a big deal out of Dean’s apparent broken heart, all of which Dean’s grateful.

“So who’s our rumoured big bad?”

Sam’s little smile fades and the darkness that lives deep within him finds its way to his eyes. “The Garrison.”

“Fuck those fuckers.”

“Mhm.”

“Maybe this time we’ll actually win one against them. Do some actual damage,” Dean says, not feeling very hopeful about it. Twice Sam had gone up against them and been smacked down. It’s like attacking the great wall of China with a pea shooter.

“Do you ever dream of dropping a bomb in their boardroom and watch them burn?” Sam asks darkly. “Hit them where it really hurts and see them scramble to figure out what hit them.”

“Yes. Fucking literally.” The robber hadn’t killed dad - the Garrison had. They’d sucked the life out of him until he was nothing but an empty shell of hopelessness. The high interest assured he’d never be able to pay off the debt. Yet, he’d tried. He’d tried and it had killed him. Dean hates mom for sucking dad and the two of them into her mess. But there’s nothing he hates more in this world than the Garrison. The hatred he felt for them had only grown stronger, the more he remembered the good times with dad. He’d kill for a chance at revenge. Just one chance, it’s all he’s asking for...

* * *

**Present day…**

“Fuck, that guy was an ass. You mean to tell me Cas actually _likes_ that guy? I thought Cas had _taste_. Shit. I feel like I need to take a shower. I mean, _Jeezus_ , you said he was a _bit_ of an asshole, and you described Megatron and the bunch as assholes? How bad do they need to be to top _that_? Christ! Are all of you just dicks with wings? Fucking hell!”

Lucifer hasn’t said a word since they entered the car. He’s white-knuckling the steering wheel, lips compressed and jaw ticking. Okay, so Dean hasn’t given him much of a chance to say anything. Dean’s been spitting vehemency since they were out of sight from the bar.

“Only good thing about that fucker was that he swings my way, and that he was too preoccupied with gaining anything to hold over your head, to use his brain cells. Don’t they teach you guys caution? Yuck. I fucking hope that it’s the real initiary in the envelope or I let that douchewad touch me for nothing. I feel like taking a bath in a tub of acid to get clean. And don’t go getting ideas, okay? I don’t mean literally. No dumping me into acid, okay? Fucking shit.”

“The envelope. What do you mean?” Luce asks deceptively soft in contrast to how everything else about him is cold and hard.

“I mean, if this isn’t what we are after, I’m gonna scream,” Dean answers and pulls Bal’s envelope out from inside his jacket.

Luce throws a glance his way, then does a double take, anger replaced by surprise. “How? I didn’t see him give it to you. And I was watching your cozy goodbye _very_ carefully.”

“Yeah well, sucking dick ain’t my only talent, pal. Dude was gloating over you seeing him paw me, so he didn’t mind me pawing him back. By the way, do all of you swing both ways or was this just a lucky shot? I always took mobsters for being homophobic as fuck.”

Luce chuckles in bemusement. “My brothers and I all swing both ways, same as dad did. But it’s not the norm. However, homophobia isn’t a problem amongst Archs, nor most of their captains. You don’t reach higher ranks if you disrespect your superiors,” he answers, humouring Dean, anger now only faintly visible in his posture.

“So Micha swings both ways too?”

“He does. Why?”

“Look, I ain’t everybody’s cup of tea, but when I am, I’m full of honey and not above using it.”

“I see. Would you have slept with Bal to get what you needed?” Luce asks sweetly, his voice a knife dipped in sugar. 

“Ew. No. I've got limits. I get that you don't understand how to be a honey trap, since you look like…” Dean gestures at Lucifer’s face and body, “but the point _isn't_ to give them what they want. It's to make them _think_ they could have it. Believe me, I ain't letting just anyone get a taste of me.”

Luce hums, looking slightly annoyed. Whether it's because he's got his bellyfill of insults already, or because of something else, Dean can't tell. “You'd be surprised by how many, or _who_ , fall for my charm,” he answers curtly, defending his pride.

“You're right. I'd be _really_ surprised. You don't really have any charm to speak of,” Dean deadpans. “And just in case. I thought we had rapport in there, but if I read you wrong, let me get one thing straight. You're never going to get a taste of me. That jealous, possessive bullshit better have been acting, just like my flirting was. It was obvious to me within seconds of meeting Bal that that guy would do _anything_ to get one up on you. Including stealing your captain slash presumed lover from you. That's why I acted like I did. If you ever try to feel me up, thinking I'll let you, I'll poke your eyeball out with a knife.”

“We did have rapport, then. I wasn't sure until now that I'd read _you_ right. Tell me your thoughts behind insulting him between the flirting.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Is this another one of your performance reviews?”

“Yes, tenderfoot. It is.”

“Fucking fine. A) my boss sat right next to me. B) that guy wants to be admired. If I pretended to be too impressed, he wouldn't be half as tempted as he was when I presented a challenge. Besides, I pretended to have roughly the same rank as him, so there'd be the element of rivalry to take into account.”

“A bold move, claiming to be an angel. The only reason he took your word for it, is that I was there and didn’t protest. Had you tried it on your own, things wouldn’t have played out like it did. And I’m not pleased with the indication that I’d sleep with somebody I’ve _made_. It fuels malicious, untrue rumours about me.”

“Boo-fucking-hoo. You want me to moderate what I say and do when we’re working together, you fucking tell me what I need to know in advance, okay? And _really_? You unironically call your captains _angels_? Damn, you’re a pretentious lot. Un-fucking-believable.” Dean shakes his head and opens the envelope before he riles himself up even more. It’s a several pages long list of flights and hotels. Those with old dates are crossed over. Then at the bottom, there are two listings for today. One for Florida, booked weeks ago, is crossed over and replaced with the airport closest to here―closest to yesterday’s heist, Dean realises―booked yesterday. All the other pages to follow have a big red stripe over them with the red text ‘Cancelled’ written. 

Holy hell. He stirred up the mob and he didn’t even know it at the time. In a way it was dumb fucking luck he managed to get himself two (questionable) allies on the inside. If they don’t shoot him first. Maybe it really was fate? _Like hell it was! Stop thinking like the hippie mobster dick._ “We need to go to the airport. If this is legit, Micha is about to land here in 70 minutes. If this is a fake, he won’t show,” he says, changing the subject.

“Take the wheel, let me see that,” Luce says and snatches the paper away from Dean.

No sooner has the paper left his hand before Dean’s grabbed the steering wheel and is watching the road so Luce can read in peace. “Is Bal really stupid enough to have the real initiary on him? Isn’t that something he’s supposed to memorise? I mean, come on. It’s stuff every Arch could benefit from getting their hands on,” Dean asks skeptically.

“I don’t think he has a good enough memory to memorize it,” Luce answers, scanning all four pages interestedly, casting glances at the road now and then to make sure Dean’s not steering them to hell.

“Then why is he even _in_ that position? A fucking toddler could memorize that list.”

“Could you?”

“Hell yeah, I could. Can’t you?”

Luce snorts but doesn’t dignify Dean with an answer, although, his disdainful expression says that he believes he can. He hands back the list and takes the wheel again. “I’ll call Cas and give him an update. Next stop, the airport.”

* * *


	11. BEWITCHED

* * *

**BEWITCHED**

* * *

They discuss the plan while they’re waiting in the car outside the airport. “If this turns out to be real, Micha’s staying at Red Crown. He’d be in the top suite to have room for his security detail. Some of them have most likely taken a flight last night or been ordered in from nearby to prepare the hotel. So we need to get the blueprints for the hotel. He’ll most likely only be travelling with 4 to 6 people, but once settled in his base, he’ll have 12 to 16, with the ability to call in a lot more within hours. The only time he’ll be alone is in the bedroom when he sleeps, but there’ll be men outside the suite as well as inside. Better expect 16, since the suite has 4 bedrooms. I’m 99% certain he’ll be in the smallest one unless he’s undergone a major personality change since I last saw him. We’ll want to go in without waking him. He’s a heavy sleeper, but it’s still not an easy feat.”

“So we’ll go Boondock Saints on him?” Dean asks, a bit overwhelmed and trying not to show it. 

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” Luce answers Dean. “Micha is not to be harmed. Nothing permanent anyway. He’s still our brother. But the rest of them might very well need to be wasted.” 

Dean thinks this is the biggest difference between them. The Winchesters have always gone for stealth if it’s possible, and done all they can not to harm anyone. The Angelus talk about killing people like it’s nothing. Like it’s a go-to solution. Sure, Dean’s got a body count to his name (4, to be exact), but those were last resort killings, starting with that time Sam was threatened. Two times he’d shivved someone in prison, and the last time was visiting a friend that got hit by a drive-by shooting. Of course Dean’s gonna fire back if he’s shot at. This is different, though. Does he have moral qualms about wasting 16 Garrison goons? Hell no! Does he think he can do it? Yes. But it’s not his first choice.

“Yeah, okay but there’s one problem. I can’t take out 16 guys by myself. This is a job I need Sam to pull off, and he needs to be kept safe, which this isn’t. I’ve never been to Red Crown. Is it possible to go in from the roof? Open a bedroom window from outside to reach Micha directly without alerting his security? Maybe cut the glass? Or can we get our hands on sleeping gas? Take everyone out before entering?”

“Don’t worry about Sam. Cas and I will be going in with you. I want success, not to send you to your death.”

“You know, that makes no sense to me,” Dean says before he can stop himself.

Luce smirks in dry amusement and lifts an eyebrow. “Why, you’ll be of no use to me if you’re dead, will you?” he teases.

“Go fuck yourself. Now, you said the suite had four bedrooms. Have you stayed there yourself?”

“I have.” Luce grabs a pen from the dashboard and uses the back of the itinerary to draw up a sketch of the suite, marking out doors, windows, vents, electrical outlets and other helpful details. He also marks where Michael’s security most likely would be placed. Those on guard and those on call. Then he uses the back of another page to go into detail about the hotel - security cameras, elevators, emergency exits, security routines etc. He points out that this information is two months outdated, but says that they often use the hotel on visits to the city. He’s wickedly good at explaining in a way that gives Dean a good overview, and they discuss different ideas to get in without Micha ever finding out it’s them. Dean sort of forgets that he hates the guy because he’s so swept up in the planning, and Luce is fucking sharp and professional. They make a list of things they might need depending on what scenario they end up going with. When they’ve done all they can without actually going there scoping the place out or getting the blueprints, they’ve still got 30 minutes left before Micha’s plane will land. (If he’s truly on the flight, that is.)

“Dude. Why don’t we just have Cas hack the passenger list and check if he’s on board?”

“Because we don’t know what name he’ll be using while travelling. Besides, I’d rather see him with my own eyes.”

“Alright…” Dean frowns thoughtfully. “Is it really true that he’s only alone when he’s asleep?”

“Mhm. Well. Bathroom breaks and the shower too, I suppose. But he’d be awake then, and he’s not to be harmed.”

“Yeah, but―”

“No. You don’t understand. My brother is _dangerous_. He wouldn’t have gotten to where he is if he wasn’t. He’d put up a fight and either he or we would end up grievously injured. We want neither outcome.”

“Alright. Fine.” Dean falls quiet and watches the people moving about outside of the airport. “He’s really always surrounded by people…?”

Luce lets out a vexed sigh. “ _Yes_ , like I said,” he says in a tone of voice that speaks of him thinking Dean must be a special breed of slow-on-the-uptake.

Dean turns to look at him. “But how does he _live_? Like, seriously. Always having a bunch of people crowding up your space? How do you breathe? How about dating? Hobbies? Jerking off? Relaxing with a good book? It must be fucking lonely and smothering. I’d go insane.”

Luce hadn’t expected that angle, face smoothing out to something surprised. “Oh. Yes. I would imagine so, but you learn to live with it. When he takes a date to a restaurant his security detail is spread out at tables some distance away. And when he takes vacations the security is down to a minimum. But he’s not here on vacation, and we don’t have time to wait until he is.”

“Yeah, no. I get that. I’m just trying to imagine what it’s like to live like that. It’s like the polar opposite of how Sam and I are living. Sure, we live on top of each other, spending a lot of time together. But it’s different. We’re so close we’re practically not whole if we’re apart too long. But to be surrounded by other people like that. Guys you don’t love like life itself…? I imagine it’s tough, ‘ts all.”

Luce hums but doesn’t respond. 

They’re quiet for a while, lost in thought.

“Hey, so… were you dating a trans chick or what?” Dean asks suddenly.

“What?” Luce asks in bewilderment.

“Bal mentioned a Mark, but you referred to her as a her.”

Luce bursts out laughing. “ _No_. Holy fuck. No no no. Mark was my pet. An albino ball python I got when I was 14. Got her when she was a tiny baby in a fit of teenage rebellion because dad hated snakes. Plus, the shithead named me Lucifer so I figured it was only fitting. I didn’t know it was a female when I got her, hence the masculine name. She grew to be 5 foot long and she freaked people out. Have you ever seen a grown man, tough guy, scream in falsetto and flap their hands in panic? Hilarious.”

“And she died while you were in lockup?”

“Mhm. She was an old girl and probably wouldn’t have lived all that much longer anyway, but some asshole put a bullet in her head just to spite me.”

“And you don’t know who?”

Lucifer’s face grows dark, voice carrying the promise of death. “No. Lucky for them.”

“I feel ya,” Dean offers, and oddly enough means it. Nevermind how he feels about snakes, you just don’t go after pets. You don’t. “Could it have been Bal?”

Luce shakes his head. “He’s an ass, but not that much of an ass. Believe it or not. Plus he rather liked the snake. Him, Gabe, and I used to sneak up on people while they were in bed or the shower, and let Mark in, then keel over laughing at the ensuing chaos.”

“Who’s Gabe?”

“Cas didn’t mention him? Hm. Surprising considering how chatty he’s been. He’s our brother. Micha’s oldest, then I, then Gabe, and lastly baby Cas. Gabe’s been missing for a while now. Most think he’s dead, but I don’t. I think he got tired of it all and ducked out, probably living in Europe or India or something under a false name.”

“Is that what you and Cas are planning? Or are you making a power grab?”

Luce snorts and shakes his head. He looks away from Dean, out of the window, and remains quiet long enough for Dean to think he won’t answer. “No. They can keep their power. I want nothing to do with it.”

Dean wonders if Lucifer is just saying that because he thinks it's what Dean wants to hear. 

Luce suddenly chuckles to himself. “I loved Mark. I've been gagging to get a new snake since I got out of jail but Cas won't let me. It's safe to say he's not a snake fan. How about you, maverick? Do you have any pets?” he asks and turns to look curiously at Dean again.

“I did. But if you talk shit about him I'll punch you, consequences be damned.”

“Now why would I do that?” Luce asks sincerely, lifting his eyebrows and tilting his head, expression open.

Dean hesitates before answering. “I had a rat.”

Luce chuckles. “They make pretty good pets, don't they? Intelligent, affectionate, funny… good choice.”

Uuhh… Not the reaction Dean had expected. “Snakes eat rats,” he points out, as if to remind Luce why he should get all condescending and mocking, not be agreeable.

“They do. Would you believe I had trouble in that department? Gabe made fun of me for it, but I never got used to feeding Mark living rats. It always made me uncomfortable. How come you chose a rat?”

Dean eyes Luce with skepticism but finds nothing but self-deprecating sincerity in his demeanour. “I didn't really choose him. More like he chose me. We were hitting a research lab in a hospital to free four puppies that were used for unethical experiments. Sammy can be worse than the PETA when he wants to. But without the mindless killing of animals, that is. Anyway, there were loads of cages with rats in there. Sam yelled at me to open all of them to create a distraction, so I did. At the last cage, the rat came out straight away, unlike the others. Big white rat with red eyes and a tear in his ear. I thought he was gross. Fucking rats, man. Living rough they're not exactly your favourites, I'll tell you that. But when I moved on he followed me. Leaped down from the bench with this death-defying jump and scurried after me. He stopped whenever I stopped and sat on his hind legs, looking up at me like he came straight outta the Ratatouille movie or something. Before I knew what I was doing I'd scooped the fucker up and shoved him into the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie. And that's how I got Jensen.”

Luce chuckles and grins. “Sounds like he could have been an awesome companion.”

“Yeah, he was. But when I just got him I still found him completely gross. I was gonna let him go, but I just kept thinking that some asshole had bred him for the sole purpose of torturing him. And since he's considered to be vermin, even bleeding hearts like Sammy’s couldn't muster up care. So I ended up keeping him. I didn't tell Sam about it so he found out two months later.” Dean sniggers. “Dude, it was hilarious. This is what happened, right?” Dean launches into a vivid retelling of the incident, acting it out as much as the front seat of the car allows. By the time Dean mimics holding Jensen prospectively against his chest, gun raised ready to shoot whatever threat to Jensen and Sam that had caused Sam to squeal, Lucifer’s in tears laughing. He laughs even more when Dean impersonates Sam's utterly _betrayed_ look when he registered that the rat had fled to Dean and that he was _protecting_ it. “...I swear I almost pissed myself laughing. These days Sam's blocking me from getting too close to _any_ rat. He thinks I'll get a new one at first chance, even if it's a wild one.”

“Admit it. You would,” Luce grins.

“Yeah, totally,” Dean laughs. “But don't tell Sam that. You know, it's funny, Jensen was a female and it drove Sam insane that I kept calling him ‘him’ even after I found out. Kinda like with your Mark, right?”

“I told you our meeting was destined,” muses with a content little smile and that weird look of fondness that creeps Dean out.

Dean scoffs and rolls his eyes. He’s promptly reminded that his brother is a hostage and they’re _not_ friends. “Oh, God. Don’t start with that bullcrap again. It wasn’t fate, it was just bad luck.” They’re chatting to kill time. That’s it.

* * *

They’re hidden behind one of the pillars in the bustling airport, staring at the exit from baggage claim that Michael is supposed to be coming from now that his flight has landed. (If he’s on it.) Dean isn’t sure what to look for but Luce suddenly points. “There he is. Surrounded by five men. You see him?”

“Holy fuck! _That's_ Michael? Fucking hell! Are all your brothers that hot? He's almost as hot as Cas. Shit.” Dean all but gapes. The guy's definitely a prototype of what was perfected when Cas was born. Face a bit more delicate than Cas’, roughly the same height, dark hair, elegant. He too is dressed in a tailored suit and walks like he owns the world. The five men in his security detail walk in a five-point star pattern around him, all wearing suits. “Guess you're the only one unlucky in the looks department, huh?”

“That's enough, tyro,” Luce snaps, giving him a cold warning glare.

_No complimenting the bigger brother. Got it._

Dean sniggers. “Ooh. Touchy.” _Good call, Dean. Poke the bear._

“Careful there, cadet. I've only got so much patience with bullshit.”

“Yeah yeah. You can't help you're ugly. I won't rub it in,” Dean teases. 

“Oh, for fuck sake. That's not it, you degenerate slut,” Lucifer complains irritably with a grimace, keeping Micha in sight.

“Funny you should call me a slut when I won't give it up to you,” Dean jibes, getting a flat look in return. “Hey so. They're only five plus Michael. You sure we can't take ‘em now?”

“Yes.”

One of the goons is talking on the phone. He gestures and Micha and his men stop. Micha scowls annoyedly, says something to the men and one of them leaves, heading for the exit while the others wait in place.

Dean looks around. He sees an unguarded baggage cart with bags on, about 20 yards away to his left, he eyes the board with departures and then looks back at the men. “You can afford to buy me a new phone, right?”

Luce snorts. “I can, but why should I?”

Dean takes his phone out. The battery is dead and he hasn't had a chance to charge it since this mess started. It hadn't mattered since Sam's phone is busted. But right now it's a good thing. “Cuz mine's about to break on the job,” he answers and slams his phone hard against the pillar they're hidden behind. Luce watches him like he's gone totally deranged. Dean looks at his (intact) phone screen and scowls. “Fucking Samsung, man. This would be so much easier if this was an iPhone,” he complains and bangs the screen as hard as he can against the pillar repeatedly, until the screen― _fucking finally_ ―cracks. He throws a look at Micha to make sure he's still stationary and hasn't discovered them, then turns his attention to Luce. He takes his gun out and slaps it into Luce’ hand. He won’t be needing it. “Get the car. Wait for me outside of terminal 4, ready to go. I'll be there in six minutes. I'm going to do some close-up recon.”

Luce wears a slight frown. He hides the gun under his suit jacket and draws breath as if to answer, but Dean doesn't wait around to be told no. He dashes away to the left, aiming for the unattended baggage cart, walking fast but not fast enough to draw attention. 

Adrenaline’s pumping with the rapid _thump-thump-thumping_ of his heart now that he's on a mission. He takes off his jacket and turns it outside in while he walks, sending a grateful thought to Sam for knowing his needs so well, picking a turnable jacket for him. From one moment to the next the red and black plaid lumberjack look (that Bal would be able to describe) is gone, exchanged for a more mainstream kind of look. He adjusts his shirt hood to lie over the jacket collar, looks around vigilantly, and grabs a bag from the cart at random. 

Once he has it he hefts it like it was his own and strides away in a wide arch so he'll come at his target from a better angle. He zigzags between people and raises his phone to his ear. He really hopes these guys have some restraint when it comes to public violence in places with lots of security. 

_Okay. So I won't get shot. (I hope.) But I might get stabbed. It's fast and easy and can be done discreetly. Fuck. Please, please, please be levelheaded, professional psychos, not loose cannons._

When he's getting closer he takes aim in the gap between two goons and speeds up to a jog, angling his face downward. There are two goons in front of Micha, flanking him. They're currently facing their boss, getting a talking to. The two flanking behind him are facing outward, on guard. Dean's not concerned with them. He's concerned with the ones closest to himself. One giant of a man who looks like he'd be able to crush Dean like a bug, and one normal, slim guy.

Dean figures that the giant is less likely to feel threatened by Dean than the regular guy, and hopefully less likely to resort to public violence at small disturbances. Dean picks him.

_Showtime._

Dean starts running and talks on the phone loudly. “No, you idiot! I'm on my fucking vacation! Like hell I will―” He smacks into the shoulder of the giant― _Create a scene. Draw witnesses’ attention._ ―bounces off in a continuous forward motion, passing him while twisting halfway around to scowl at the giant. “Hey! People are walking here! Watch where you’re―” He feels his back connect with somebody (hopefully Micha), pushes off with a leg to unbalance himself and make it a tackle-slash-fall, hoping it doesn’t look deliberate. He widens his eyes in faux surprise. “Woah, _shit!_ ”

He twists around as if he intends to catch himself, dropping both bag and phone, registering it’s indeed Michael he’s tumbling into and grabs a hold of him to make sure he topples too.

What many people don’t realise is that when you’re in the moment like this, heart thundering in fright, adrenaline pumping, and danger acute, you’ve got _a lot_ of time to think. It’s not like time slows to a crawl. Not really. It just feels that way. Dean’s read that it’s because the amygdala produces an extra set of rich, crucial memories, registering and storing the event in full HD instead of 240p. That’s also why time seems to go faster as you grow older. A kid learns from fucking everything, and stores everything as crucial, while the adult brain goes ‘been there, done that, I’ll only take a few snapshots.’ Or, so Dean’s read. The science behind it isn’t all that important. Not when he’s got an underlying feeling of ‘ _Shit. This was a mistake and I’m gonna die._ ’

Michael’s eyes widen (hazel green, nothing like Cas’), lips parting. One of his hands grabbing onto Dean’s shoulder, right by the neck, the other flailing as he loses his balance and falls backwards.

Dean gets a hand behind Micha’s head, cupping it. (‘ _Micha’s not to be harmed._ ’ That’s the main instruction Luce has given him.) He lets his mouth spout dismayed profanity while he falls, hoping the goons won’t catch him in time, needing to seem as surprised and alarmed by the fall as Michael. He sees movement in his peripheral vision but ignores it, reaching out behind Michael to catch them both, softening the landing. There’s a jolt of pain in his wrist as his hand touches the stone floor and starts taking their combined weight, then another, lesser one, in his knuckles when they get caught between Micha’s head and the floor on impact, hopefully preventing a concussion and definitely stopping Micha’s skull from cracking.

“Holy shit! Fuck! Jeezus! I’m sorry. I― _Ow!_ Fuck.” Dean scrambles to get up, fails, since his arm is trapped under Micha, kicks someone behind him ‘by mistake’ to win more time, almost faceplants on Micha’s neck while trying to get himself loose, feels something under Micha’s suit― _Is that a gun? Yup. That’s a gun alright. How the hell do these fuckers manage to travel armed? They just got off a plane for fuck sake! I gotta ask Luce about that. Maybe he can teach me how to...No! I’m not his new pet project, damnit!_ ―shifts his hand to be under Michael’s neck and― 

Somebody grabs him by the back of his belt (where he’d kept his gun before) and hauls him up at the same time as two goons get a grip on Micha and help him up.

Dean half-turns towards the guy (giant) still gripping his belt and scowls. “Hey, let go of me, you asshole! My flight leaves in―” He turns towards Michael who’s dusting himself off, frowning coldly at him.

_Fuck, I’m dead meat. Okay. Act, Winchester. Be Oscar worthy._

Dean sucks in a shocked breath and stares dumbly at Michael, pretending to be stunned, mouth falling open. Then, so it won’t be mistaken for recognition, he adds a dazed barely smile and breathes “Holy shit, you’re _gorgeous_ ,” ignoring the giant as if he forgot he exists even though he grips Dean by the arm. There’s a flash of surprise in Michael’s eyes.

_Blink as if your brain has trouble catching up. Suddenly remember yourself. Act flustered and apologetic._

Dean sucks in a second breath. “Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, Sir. Are you alright? I’m―” Dean snatches his baseball cap off his head in a show of respect and squeezes it. His bruised knuckles feel wet. He can't break gaze now that he's pretending to swoon, but he hopes he's bleeding. He reaches out towards Michael with the hopefully bleeding hand. “Shit, I'm so sorry. Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?” _Concern. Worry. Regret. Make it seem like I care more about his health than my own_. The giant’s grip on his upper arm tightens painfully and the other goons step in to cut him off from getting closer. Micha’s gaze is sharp and intelligent and hard to read now that the cold annoyance has left him. Dean lets himself be thwarted and drops his hand, hunching his shoulders, looking shamefaced and pained. “I'm such a fucking klutz. I'm really sorry, Sir. I didn’t see you.”

Micha seems to come to a decision. He makes a tiny gesture with a finger, his men step back and Dean's released. _Bingo._ “It's alright. Accidents happen.”

“Yeah, but still…”

There it is. A little half smile. “Don't worry about it. I'm much more durable than I look.”

_Okay. Duck out straight away, or stick around to my cue?_

They've got a small audience looking their way due to the ruckus. Blessed be human curiosity. It’s his only safeguard. Make a scene. Mobsters would want cops on their heels about as much as Dean does. He’d anticipated having to pick a fight, _loudly_ , to squirrel loose. But this is an opportunity to take a completely different route.

Dean's too curious. He wants to know more about the oldest Angelus. The guy is fucking pretty. Yes, pretty. Real fucking pretty.

“Oh, I bet you are,” Dean says, smirking lasciviously, then instantly slaps his hand over his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut in a _shit-I-can’t-believe-I-said-that-out-loud_ manner. He bends his neck and draws his shoulders up, using embarrassed body language. 

A low, dark chuckle makes him look up again. Micha’s smiling at him now, eyes twinkling in amusement. His gaze is keen and curious but he doesn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I…” Dean trails off, feigning uncertainty, watching Micha study him like he’s waiting for what this trainwreck will do next. Dean gives him a sheepish smile. He’s aware he’s got the focus of two of the goons while the other two are eyeing the people around them. But Dean keeps his focus on Micha. He draws breath as if gathering courage. “Say… how big’s the chance of you being here today to catch the flight to Prentice, Wisconsin?” He rubs his neck self-consciously.

Micha lifts an eyebrow in question, but his expression is friendly now.

_What would a man like Michael Angelus want? A man that’s surrounded by people all the fucking time. Loads of responsibility, scheming, violence… What would I want in his place?_

Dean continues talking. “I mean, I’m going to Harshaw on vacay. It’s like, just a couple of cottages in the middle of the woods, but the fishing there... Oh, man, you should see the size of the smallmouth bass you can catch.” His eyes light up with excitement. “It’s fucking great! The only sounds are crickets, birds, the streams, and the wind in the trees. The stars are damned awesome. No city lights to fuck up the night sky. To sit by a campfire, grilling the day’s catch for dinner, downing a beer that’s been cooled in the stream, it’s such a liberating feeling you wouldn’t believe! And I was thinking, if you’re going to Prentice too, maybe we could… we could…” he trails off, pretending to have a reality check, and swallows, the excited grin melting off his face. “Yeah, no. You wouldn’t. Of course, you wouldn’t. You’re way out of my league. Fuck. I’m sorry, Sir. You probably don’t even swing that way. Shit. I’m sorry―” he takes a step back, dejected and stressed, and backs into the giant. He turns his head to look at the giant, then looks around at Micha’s men like he just now discovers that they’re bodyguards, then his head snaps back to face Micha. Dean takes on an ‘ _Oh no!_ ’ expression. “Crap. I’m such an idiot. You’re a celebrity, aren’t you? Fucking hell! Damnit, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.” He lets out a pained, nervous laughter, trying to look as if he wishes the earth would open up and swallow him. “They say no guts, no glory, right? But when I go with my guts it mostly gets gory,” he jokes lamely. “Fucking Christ, I’m rambling. I’m―”

Micha’s looking at him with a big grin (perfect fucking teeth) now, eyes warm. Like he’s having an ‘Aww, what a cute puppy’-moment. Endeared. He cuts Dean off by finishing Dean’s sentence. “―PG-rated for language?”

Dean’s startled laugh is a real one. “Amongst other things, yeah, I guess.” He nods his agreement at the floor, smiling broadly, keeping his embarrassed (submissive) posture and squeezing his baseball cap in his hands.

Micha chuckles low and pleasantly. “What’s your name?”

“Tom.” Dean looks up to meet his gaze hopefully, neck still bent slightly to signal he’s still submissive. “Tom Hannigan, Sir.”

Micha steps in closer. “Hi, Tom. I’m Michael. Nice to meet you.” Micha’s smile is a goddam thing of beauty. He tilts his head while smiling at Dean, but not in the way Cas’ and Lucifer do it. Rather, he’s tipping his head to the side, dropping a shoulder to lean a bit to the side, making his own posture less dominant (and much more endearing) and coming level to Dean’s lowered face.

“Really?” Dean asks, looking perplexed and skeptical, straightening up a bit.

Micha chuckles again. “Yes, Tom. Give me your hand,” he says and fishes out a fucking cloth handkerchief out of his pocket. Who the fuck walks around with a _cloth_ handkerchief these days? And not even one of those snazzy ones poking up from a breast pocket in a perfect arrow point, but a plain cotton one with light blue and grey striping at the edges. Dean’s face must have given something away, because Micha sniggers silently in a series of sharp exhales that makes his shoulders jump in mirth, eyes crinkling at the edges from amusement. “I promise you, it isn’t used,” he assures, merriment carrying in his voice, and holds a palm open in request.

“Oh. Right.” Dean gives him his hand, finally seeing that his knuckles are indeed bleeding from cushioning the impact of Michael’s skull on the stone floor.

Michael steps even closer, biting his lip over a smile, inside of Dean’s personal space, and takes Dean’s hand, then with gentle movements ties the hankie over the bruised and scraped knuckles, all while holding Dean’s gaze.

This.

This is what Cas and Luce were talking about when they said being memorable due to charm, like Micha, wasn’t always a disadvantage.

All the skill Cas lacked in the seduction department? His oldest brother has it.

His eyes are warm, playful, and fucking _intense_. He’s looking at Dean like Dean’s the only person that matters. Exactly the way Dean’s been trying to do since he got a positive reaction to calling Micha gorgeous. It’s a trick - to make people feel like they matter. If it’s well done, it doesn’t feel like you’re being tricked.

Dean swallows dryly, cheeks heating up and his heart doing something erratic, and he sure as hell isn’t faking any of that. The guy’s got charisma on command, paired with great looks to boot.

If Dean hadn’t met Cas beforehand and got hung up on him...

If Dean hadn’t known Micha is a mob boss...

If Dean wasn’t on a mission to cheat him…

If Sam wasn’t obliviously held hostage…

Honestly? Dean almost forgets about all of that in this moment. Michael and Dean are two mages that brought the same type of spells to a duel. Only, Dean cast charm, and Micha cast full on _mind control_. And maybe Dean shouldn’t have spent so much time playing D &D with Zeddmore and Spangler when he and Sam rented a room in their house, if he’s thinking in those terms. But seriously, Micha’s gaze is nothing short of bewitching.

When Michael has tied the hankie around Dean’s hand he holds it between his own, warmth bleeding through. “I’m not on my way to Wisconsin. I’m here to work. But I’ll tell you what, Tom. If you give me your phone number, I’ll give you a call when I’m done here. Then we can have dinner, and maybe you can convince me to go on a fishing trip with you?”

And Dean fucking _wants_ that. Michael’s created that feeling of want, and it isn’t even a sexual thing. It’s not like he’s stupid. He gets it. He knows enough about the man in front of him to understand why he’s the next in line to be the big boss. This is why everybody likes him. It’s that thing about making someone instantly feel important. Seduction isn’t just about appealing to people’s libido or romantic notions. It can be applied to create feelings of friendship and general trust too. Add a cold and calculating mind behind it and there are no limits to what you can do.

“Um, yeah, yeah. Sure. Of course. Right,” Dean flusters. “I don’t know my number by heart, but if you give me your number right now, I’ll call you on the spot so you’ll get it.” Dean reluctantly retrieves his hand and starts patting himself in search of his phone. “Where the hell is it? I just had it, dammit!”

One of the goons holds out Dean’s phone to him neutral expression on his face. “You dropped it when you fell, Sir.” 

_Sir? I wasn’t expecting that. Gotta be because Micha isn’t hostile._

Dean takes it. “Thanks.” He looks at his phone and its cracked, black screen. “Fuck!” He tries unsuccessfully to turn it on. “Oh, fucking hell! Crap. Shit. Damnit! It’s broken.” He looks back at Micha with a mournful expression edged with some desperation. “Shit, I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do now.”

Michael looks troubled. Before he has a chance to respond, however, the airport speaker system makes the announcement Dean’s been waiting for.

“`Attention. Last call for flight N4387D to Prentice, from gate 44, currently boarding. Gate will be closing shortly.`”

“Shitshitshit!” Dean looks in the direction he has to run, then desperately back at Micha.

Micha gets a determined look in his eyes, takes out his wallet and removes a business card. He hands it to Dean and smiles. “Call me when you get your phone fixed, Tom.” 

“Thanks,” Dean says, radiating relief. He reads the card. “Angelus? You know, there’s a really bad pickup line wanting to be said, but I’m not going to say it because the only obvious answer to it is ‘Of course it did, moron, since you landed on top of me!’” Dean jokes. He grins and pockets the card, putting his baseball cap on with the other hand.

It’s a stupid joke but it makes Micha laugh while Dean hefts his bag. “Go. Or you’ll miss your flight,” he urges with a warm smile and gestures with his head.

“Right. Nice meetin’ ya,” Dean offers takes off with a bouncy jog, still looking at Michael until he bumps into someone and has to turn his head in the right direction. He does have time to see Micha chuckle in amusement at his collision before looking away. He jogs until he thinks he’s just within sight, turns around as if wanting to catch one last look and sees that Michael’s still staring at him, a big smile on his face. Dean raises his hand and makes an I’ll-call-you gesture, waves, and turns forward again, running out of sight. He runs all the way to terminal 4 before he slows to a brisk walk and heads out of the exit. 

The car is there, idling. Dean hurries to it and gets inside. Luce steps on the gas as soon as he closes the door.

Dean looks at the clock on the dashboard.

Six minutes. It felt like an eternity, but it took six minutes…

* * *

“You’re, hands down, a far better getaway driver than Cas,” Dean states as they leave the airport behind.

“You’re fucking _kidding_ me?” Luce asks tightly. He’s red in the face, his nostrils are flared and his eyes fucking _black._

_Oh shit._

It’s not like Dean didn’t know Lucifer wouldn’t get pissed. He’d been thinking ‘I’ll burn that bridge when I get there’, and been high on the rush from what he’d done when he got into the car. He hadn’t paid attention to the level of wrath coming off of Luce in fumes.

“No. You _are_ better. He left the car and went to me,” Dean answers as if he took the question seriously. He doesn't, but dumb answers are a (often failing) self-defense mechanism he can’t stop himself from giving. 

Luce grits his teeth hard enough for Dean to _hear_. “Do you have _any_ idea how close to dying you came? I had my gun trained on you, almost squeezing the trigger when you blundered into Micha. Mackenzie had his hand on his gun, Roman had his knife in hand. And Micha almost pinched you into unconsciousness.”

 _He did?_ Dean recalls the situation to figure out what Lucifer’s talking about. Michael had grabbed onto him. Thinking about the grip now he distinctly remembers a hand in the bend between neck and shoulder, where they pinch in movies to take out guards from behind. “That shit actually works?”

“ _Yes!_ If you know what you're doing it does! You’ve got the luck of the devil! And I mean that unironically so wipe that smirk off your face. If you'd slammed into Dick Roman instead of Golem you'd be bleeding out from a stab wound. If you hadn't made such a scene airport security was already heading your way, or if you hadn't fallen on Micha with your back first, or appeared to be so oblivious to the danger the bodyguards posed to you, you'd be toast! And what the hell would I tell Sammy then? Huh? Tell me!” Luce punches the dashboard in anger. “And then you turn all adorable and cozy with our god damned target?! Why the hell were you flirting with him?! You could have gotten away the moment he gave the command to stand down, but _no_. You realize how much harder our mission will be now that you're on their radar? Security _will_ be on the lookout for you, whether they believed you were a regular Joe or not. We had the fucking advantage of a face they don't recognise and _you fucking ruined that!_ You asinine cretin! And that's giving you the benefit of a doubt. As far as I know, you might have warned him of our plans!”

“Chill, man. I don't _know_ your plans,” Dean protests, heart speeding in fear for the second time. Plus hearing that Luce almost shot him, and that two of the bodyguards had been so close to using their weapons scares the hell out of him. He’d known the danger. Of course he had. Yet hearing it retold by a watcher is different. Basically, he’s alive because six people, counting Luce, had decided to hold off for a few seconds to see if he was attacking or just being a nobody acting like a dunce. It’s extra noteworthy that Luce would kill in Michael’s defense, despite whatever had come between them to make Luce turn traitor. It’s also interesting to hear that Micha made a split second decision to hold off a non-violent (sorta) defensive move. Why? Dean replays the situation in his head yet again. _Bam_ \- Micha’s grip by his neck, _Bam_ \- Dean’s hand coming up to cup Micha’s skull protectively a fraction later. _Sonnova bitch. That’s it, isn’t it?_

Lucifer pummels on like a freight train, sparing a second to give another driver the finger for trying to cut in in front of them. “Yes, you do! ‘Your brothers are coming for the key.’ One fucking sentence is all it would take. And do you realize how disconcerting it is to see someone successfully perform trailer trash versions of Micha’s tricks? How the hell can I trust you not to betray us when you offer yourself to every one of our adversaries we meet?!” Luce seems to get more enraged the more he rants, voice rising, baring teeth. “I'm considering pulling over behind the abandoned factory up ahead and put a bullet right between those princess-green eyes of yours! _BUT I'M NOT GOING TO DO THAT BECAUSE I'M A REASONABLE MAN! **I WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE HELL YOU WERE THINKING?!**_ ”

Luce doesn't come off as very reasonable _at all_. Spittle flying and veins throbbing on his red forehead. But when he turns his head to glare at Dean there's sanity in his eyes, if you can call it that. He still has sharp intelligence and control at work behind the storm in his eyes. He isn’t a man who lost his temper - he _unleashed_ it. 

“I'll tell you, okay? But you've got to stop being so goddamn jealous!” That's Dean for you. A perfect mix of streetsmart and dumb as a doorknob. Pick the issue in the least need of being addressed. Good job, there.

Luce roars. “ _ **JEALOUS?! I'M NOT―!**_ ” He sucks in A couple of deep breaths to rein himself in. Dean's starting to get really fucking scared, palms and neck getting clammy as Luce leaves the highway for the rarely used road towards the abandoned factory. It's a short road, cracked and bumpy from disrepair. Luce jaws are clenched, their muscles ticking rhythmically on his cheek, breath heavy. He rounds the factory and parks behind it in the deserted parking lot. Out of sight from fucking anybody. He gets his breathing under control then he turns towards Dean. “I'm not jealous, Dean,” he says in a cold, calm voice. His whole posture is back to being composed and collected, yet his eyes are bone-chillingly cold. “I prefer my lovers less profane and more refined than you can ever be,” he sneers. “But when my brother calls me at 6 A.M. in the morning…” He sticks his hand inside his suit jacket and takes out Sam’s gun, flipping the safety off. Dean’s blood runs cold. He remembers well enough the last time he’d tried to get out of this car, only to find the door locked. Trying to get out right now would most likely have the same result. Lucifer’s holding the gun close to his body, pointed at Dean. A sudden movement could make him pull the trigger and by keeping the gun close to himself Dean wouldn’t be able to reach it in time. Unless the stolen bag Dean has in his lap contains kevlar body armour, Dean doesn’t stand a chance. His mouth is drier than the Sahara desert, making it hard to swallow. His skin feels cold and numb and he’s overheating at the same time. Luce continues speaking cooly. “...gushing about your perfection and how beautiful you are when you sleep, asking for relationship advice, his words - not mine - then I take an interest. Under normal circumstances, I’d let you two fumble your way through it with whatever outcome, except, these aren’t normal circumstances.”

“Relationship advice?” Dean tries to keep from looking at the gun, meeting Lucifer’s gaze instead. If Luce pulls that trigger, all he has to do is dry the gun off and hand it back to Sam, and Sam would end up being the prime suspect. It’s not completely easy to focus on what Luce is saying.

“Mmmhm. I’d say the word ‘relationship’ is more than a little premature. But it’s Cas we’re talking about, and for all his talents, he couldn’t navigate his way to an _actual_ relationship even if he was on single track rails with MapQuest as a guide. He wondered if coercing you to work for us was truly an obstacle to ‘the relationship’. And if it would be inappropriate to wake you up with a kiss, since you’d made out already but you went to bed mad at him.”

That explains Cas’ weird phrasing this morning when Dean asked for a kiss. Dean feels dizzy and confused. The mental disconnect between the topic―’Cas _really_ likes me!’―and a certainty that he’s about to get murdered and Sam framed for the deed, is almost too much. Fluttering, confused curiosity and nauseating fear aren’t meant to coexist. Dean latches onto the easiest thing to answer and focus on. “Dude. I was mad at him for prioritising work ahead of me. You can tell him that the next time he feels like waking me up with a kiss, or by humping my leg or whatever, he can go right ahead. I’m game.”

Luce blows out air through his nose, compressing his lips to a thin line. His gaze is dark and unwavering, pinning Dean in place. “Don’t you understand the gravity of the situation you’re in, Dean? Let me spell it out for you. Cas’ is smitten with you. You flirt a bit and everything’s fine. But then you go flirting with Bal…”

“Wait. That jealous possessive bullshit after Bal… you were just looking out for Cas?”

“Of course I look out for his interests! And, sure, in there we were working as a team. Faking an intimate relationship served a purpose. But then you go pull the same seduction routine as you did with Cas, _without my permission_ , on our target and main adversary. This puts your forced loyalty into question, as well as your intentions with Cas. With the stakes as high as they are, I can’t afford the risk of―”

Dean holds up his hands, palms out in a stopping gesture, fighting panic. “Now, hold on just a minute there. I said I’d tell you what I was up to. You said you’re reasonable and would hear me out. I wasn’t looking to switch sides. Fuck, but you’ve got Sam. It ain’t no fucking game, okay?”

“Please, do tell. Because the more I think about that stunt you pulled, the more I doubt the wisdom of letting you go.”

“Taking out 16 professionals is fucking hard with only three people. I ain’t no trained killer. I’m a _thief_. Sure, I’ve got a body count. But I’ve done all I’ve could to fucking _avoid_ it. I’m all about stealth―”

“Yes, because what you did at the airport was really stealthy,” Luce interrupts sarcastically.

“Dude. I’ve shivved two people in jail without even becoming a suspect. I know how to create a diversion. It so happens that sometimes you’ve gotta _be_ the diversion. Look, man, I saw an opportunity and I took it. I bashed my phone to give myself a reason both to seem distracted and to be able to pick a fight about it being broken to draw attention from witnesses and airport security. Mobsters wouldn’t want that kind of attention, right? I figured they’d hold off for that reason alone. Stole the bag to seem like I was there to travel, chose a flight that was about to leave soon, to get the last call message in the speakers, giving me a reason to rush away.”

Due to some miracle, Lucifer’s actually listening keenly. Oh, he’s got hostility written all over, but he’s _listening_. He hasn’t made up his mind yet. “Go on.”

“Me bumping into Gentle Giant wasn’t fucking luck. I’m tall. People get intimidated by me from my height alone. The giant, Golem you called him? Is that his name?”

Luce shakes his head. “Nickname. And he _isn’t_ gentle.”

“Yeah, he was. Giants always are unless they’re high, stupid, or crybabies that can’t handle pain. They don’t see normal sized people like us as threats because they know they can take us out with one swat.” (Whether he and Luce could be considered ‘normal’ height wise, is arguable. But whatever.) “The other guy woulda, I figured. I bumped into Golem and turned my back on Michael because again, I figured that you don’t think you’re being attacked when somebody comes at you back first with a phone to their ear and a bag in hand. The risky part of that move was if anyone saw the phone was busted before it hit the floor when I dropped it. And you said Michael wasn’t to be harmed so I made sure to cushion his head when we fell,” Dean rambles and holds up his hankie-bandaged hand to demonstrate his point. “I followed orders.”

“And the flirting?” Luce is still cold, scrutinizing Dean as if he could drill a hole through his skull and read his mind for intent.

“That’s your fault. My original plan was to pretend to be upset, draw witnesses and back away shouting or whatever. But then I remembered that you said he swings both ways, which means he wouldn’t take offense to a guy being attracted to him. That gave me the opportunity to come off as the opposite of a threat, both to him and his goons. I pretended to be dumbstruck by his looks, and when that gave a positive reaction I faked getting the courage to ask him out, then backtracked as if I realised he was out of my league and had already made a fool of myself. I pretended to notice his bodyguard and jump to the conclusion that he was a celeb of some sort. It would have been a perfect opportunity to be flustered and duck out. But he wouldn’t let me. I’d worked my flight’s destination into the conversation when asking him out, and then the last call message came so I could leave. But not before he’d asked me to dinner. He gave me his card and I could finally leave.”

“He gave you his―?” Luce mutters, then grunts. He hadn't seen the whole encounter, couldn't have, since he had to get the car. “So everything panned out as you’d foreseen it, did it?”

“Yeah, no it didn’t. I hadn’t expected the dinner invite or for him to patch me up. But otherwise yes.”

“Pray tell, what did you hope to accomplish with this little recon of yours?” Luce asks sweetly. Too sweetly. None of this proves Dean’s loyalty and Dean knows it.

Dean swallows dryly. “Um. You wanted to see what I was selling, right? My mutant superpower ain’t breaking into hotels to kill mobsters.” He pulls his hand into his sleeve, grabs a hold of what he’s hidden inside and pulls it out. He holds up the silver chain, small key dangling at its end. “...It’s theft.” Luce’s face smooths out in surprise. “Yeah. As you can see, I can’t give Micha a call and go ‘How ‘bout that dinner?’ now. He’ll realise I took this. I’d be dead meat. This is the key you’re after, right? The one you said would be worn around his neck?”

“It is…” Finally, the apparent hostility melts away from Lucifer’s face and is replaced by a reflective expression.

“Don’t hurt Sam.” There’s still a risk that they’re both getting smoked now that the mobsters have what they wanted. That’s why Dean hadn’t fessed up the moment he got into the car. Somehow he'd hoped he could keep the key a secret until they were back with Sam and Cas. “You said you’re men of your word. Please, let him go unharmed like you promised.”

Luce holds his hand out for the key and Dean drops it into his palm without hesitation. Luce looks down on the key with an expression that gives nothing away except him being in deep thought. After a beat he flicks the safety back on the gun, resting it in his lap. Inwardly Dean sags with relief. What now? It's THE question. 

“You'll let us go now, right?” Dean probes.

Luce sighs and looks out of the window, away from Dean. He doesn't appear as pleased as he should have, to get the key. Rather, he seems a bit… sad? He's quiet for a bit, then, “I'm afraid I can't do that just yet.”

“ _Why not?_ You promised,” Dean protests. Like it would make any difference. A promise from a mobster isn't worth much, is it? Dean wonders what it means. Are they going to get smoked? Will they let Sam go and keep Dean for some mission like Dean offered? What― 

Luce looks back at him. “Because I also promised Sam we'd help him stop the pollution from the Sandover mines.”

_Oh._  
_Wait, what?_

“So what does it mean?”

Luce answers something else entirely. A question Dean hadn’t asked. “It means, even if you warned Micha about us, he'd still suspect you since you stole the key. You've got a target on your back.”

“Yeah I get that. I mean for us. What does it mean for us?” Dean’s fear is dissipating. Instead, he feels mostly confused.

Luce lifts the key and drags it along his lower lip thoughtfully, looking at Dean. Once again he takes too long to answer, and when he does, he doesn’t. “You were right, you know?”

 _Christ! Can this guy start giving straight answers?_ “About what?”

“When you dropped into our laps. I did plan to set you loose as a decoy to gain us time.”

 _Aha! I fucking knew it!_ “And?”

“I thought it was fate. We were given a gift to make things easier for us.” Luce holds the key level with his eyes and looks at it, shifting it this way and that. “I still think it's fate, but perhaps not due to the reason I first thought.”

Dean stares at him, curious, confused, and hopeful. But also, frustrated and impatient for Lucifer to get to the point now that his imminent fear has left him.

Luce pockets the key, meeting Dean’s gaze with a small smirk, once again avoiding the initial question. “I’ll confess, I was looking forward to doing the Red Crown raid with you. You appear professional and intuitive. If I had known how easily you could get the key―“

Dean’s pride takes offense at that. “Hold on. You think it was easy? Yeah, no. I'm fucking skilled and I still had to bargain for extra time. All that flapping around on top of him like a demented fish on land? He had this weird, tight vest on and the key was stuck under it. I thought I was gonna be busted for sure.”

Luce tssks. “He wears a stab proof vest. A thin one that isn't supposed to be seen. I could have told you that, if you'd informed me of what you planned to do,” he says.

“Yeah. But you could also have told me no,” Dean points out matter-of-factly.

“I would have. Sleeping gas through the vents in the hotel suite would have been a better option since it would have meant that they wouldn’t have seen your face. Micha will remember you, and he’s not a person you want to be remembered by.”

“Oh, yeah. Because you’re _really_ concerned with my safety,” Dean counters sarcastically.

Luce hums. “Your brother and I… I’m very fond of Sam. We’ve got the start of a beautiful…” He licks his lips as if searching for the right word. “... _friendship_. It’s not that strange that I’d want to see you unharmed, or don’t want to put a spotlight on you in a way that will endanger your little brother. So, yes. I am concerned with your safety as long as you don't appear to be endangering ours. It didn’t start out that way, but let’s face it - you stuck a gun in my face in lieu of hello.”

Fucker has a point. This whole mess _had_ started by him trying to carjack Luce. Though Dean doesn’t like the intonation Luce uses on the word ‘friendship’. It sounds like Lucifer’s getting ideas. “Yeah, yeah. Just fucking remember that just because you’re fond of Sam doesn’t mean he’s fond of you too. So don’t you fucking try anything, okay? You’re not his type and he’ll never be into you. Is that clear?”

Lucifer’s lips curl into a faintly amused smirk, eyes showing warmth and that creepy fucking fondness again, along with… pity? “Crystal. I promise you, Dean, I won’t lay a hand on someone who isn’t into me.”

“You better not. So, what now? You do your heist and the four of us skip off to Sandover? Or you need to lay low and deal with Sandover first? When will we be free to go?”

“I’m fond of your brother, tyro, but Cas isn’t attached to him yet. If I don’t check in when I’m supposed to, nothing will stop him from retaliation, no matter how smitten he is with you.”

Dean narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What are you saying?”

Luce holds Sam’s gun out to Dean. “I’m saying, you _are_ free to go. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

Dean stares at the gun as if it's a trap. It's too easy. 

“I'm giving you the benefit of a doubt, for Cas and Sam's sake. Don't think we no longer have trust issues. We _do_. And if I ever catch you talking to Michael again I won't care about how our brothers feel about it. I _will_ make your death slow and lingering,” Luce informs him and wiggles the gun to get Dean to accept it.

Somehow getting threatened makes Dean relax. It's more believable. Makes sense. “I won't,” Dean promises and takes the gun. He checks to see if it's still loaded then puts it inside of his belt. 

Once that's done a strange sort of feeling descends. Both Dean and Lucifer are quiet. Both thinking of what happens now that the dynamics change. They're supposedly equals now. Not _quite_. Not that Dean will admit it out loud, but Lucifer feels like a superior when it comes to planning and executing big operations. Of course, Dean hasn't seen him in big scale action, but he’s seen enough. And okay, it’s no wonder if he’s better than Dean at some things. Dean’s an ordinary, decent, all-American Joe (kinda), while Luce is a fucking mobster, bred and raised to be a criminal. “Are you good at picking pockets?” Dean asks, slightly perturbed.

“I’ve never tried. Why?” Luce answers in bemusement.

“No reason.” At least there’s something Dean’s better at than him. “Did Cas tell you I stole two guns from him along with his wallet?” Lucifer’s face tells Dean that no, Cas hadn’t. “Took his wallet, removed a credit card, then put the wallet back without him noticing. The first time I did it―”

“The _first_ time?”

“Yeah. The first time doesn’t really count. We were making out so I get why he was distracted. But the second time I took a credit card from him was when we entered Biggerson's this morning. You might want to tell him to pay more attention when he gets jostled. It was too fucking easy.”

“Believe me, I will,” Luce answers with a dark frown that suggests Cas will get a stern talking to. Quiet once again descends, but this time is lighter, a tad bit less uncertainty to it. If it wasn’t for the weird, badass nerd enigma that was Castiel Angelus, Dean would have been trying to figure out how to convince Luce not to help them with Sandover, (Because after what just transpired, he actually believes Lucifer will do it. If nothing else just to spite Dean.) and convince Sam they needed to make a run for it. But Cas is in this picture. Triggerhappy, awkward, gorgeous, blushing Cas with his perfect kisses, his combination of super smart and complete oblivion. It wouldn’t be the first time Dean had become friends with the enemy. Benny for an instance. They’d had a rocky start. Sixpence, Trey, and Ketch too. All people he’d gotten to know in prison and got off on the wrong foot with, but had proved themselves to be valuable allies. In fact, if he hadn’t served time he probably wouldn’t even consider whether or not it was worth the risk to stick around, especially not when Lucifer, the ultimate asshole, had been about to fucking waste him mere minutes ago. Hah! Goes to show how well Dean’s survival instinct works. Lucifer breaks him out of his woolgathering. “What’s in the bag?” he asks curiously.

“What? Oh. I dunno.”

“Then why did you bring it?” Luce tilts his head and scrunches his face up in bemusement.

“Loot crate, dude!” Dean grins. “You never know what you’re gonna get.”

Luce looks sceptical for a beat, then chuckles. “Fair enough. Are you going to open it?”

Dean opens the bag. It’s damned lucky it didn’t open when Dean pulled his stunt on Micha and his men or he’d been busted for sure. Luce follows his motions with rapt attention as he begins pulling out its content. Tampons. “Good for nosebleeds,” he remarks.

“Or dipping in water and throwing at brothers,” Luce suggests.

“Good thinking.” A bag of makeup. “This will come in handy if Sam’s passed out drunk and urgently needs a dick drawn on his face.”

“It _is_ manufactured to paint faces with,” Luce agrees, making Dean snigger.

Two Harlequin novels. “Anything goes when you’re bored enough.”

Luce makes a sturgeon face, conceding to the point. 

A pair of… Dean feels a grin grow on his face as he holds up the black, lacy panties with pink bows. “ _Bingo._ ”  
“ _Bingo._ ”

Dean’s head snaps to the side to meet Lucifer’s twinkling gaze when he realises they spoke at the same time. They break out laughing as if on a given signal, and with it, the last remaining tension pops like a bubble.

Dean fucking hates him and his stupid fucking blue eyed brother.

* * *


	12. PUTTING A FOOT IN IT

* * *

**PUTTING A FOOT IN IT**

* * *

“You can’t seriously mean Cas shot that guy solely to impress me?” 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, learner.”

“Dude, that’s fucked up. Why would I want that? I want a stable, reliable person with a normal job and a nice house and―”

Luce chuckles. “Keep telling yourself that, hayseed. We both know it isn’t true.”

Dean frowns at his back as they’re walking through the lobby at Hartmann’s hotel. It’s a decent place―the budget version of classy. “That’s bullshit.”

“No. If it were, you wouldn’t be leading the life you lead today.”

“No, that’s circumstantial. You don’t know me.”

Luce turns his head enough to cast Dean an amused smirk but doesn’t answer. He does that a lot. Skip out on answering stuff when he knows it will rub Dean the wrong way as much as a ribbing answer would do.

“Hey, Luce, can I ask you something?”

“I’m sure you will even if I say no.” They enter the elevator and push the top floor button. Someone else steps inside and Luce pins them with an ice-cold glare. The person, a short, round man, looks up to discover Lucifer’s open hostility promising bad things to come, and wisely steps right back out of the elevator again.

“If it keeps blowing up in your face every time, why do you keep taking on protegés? I mean, maybe you're not such a good judge of character as you think you are, if they keep betraying you.”

Lucifer’s face scrunches up in bemused annoyance. “Who says it keeps blowing up in my face?”

“Bal made it sound like―“

Luce scoffs. “ _Bal_ can go fuck himself. I have been betrayed by a chosen one exactly _once_. It's one time too many. The rest of them are all angels or running their own businesses by now.”

Calling them ‘angels’ is just weird, but Dean gets the point. It’s also interesting to hear they aren’t all part of the Garrison. “So why are Cas and Bal so averse to you mentoring people?”

“Snobbism, dear Watson. We are born into this and on the rare occasion when we pick someone to sponsor it's usually amongst those already working for us, men that have already proved themselves. The elite. I, on the other hand, pick young men with potential, regardless of their former affiliation or their future goals.”

“So kinda like Kingsman. And you're the guy picking Eggsy.”

Luce chuckles. “Indeed. I don't think heritage should decide what you make of yourself, nor what you’re allowed to become. Are you interested in letting me teach you my trade? I can’t entice you with a top position in an established organisation, seeing as I’m about to leave it, but that’s not what you’re looking for anyway.”

Dean ignores the offer for now. “So what happened to the last guy?”

“Sufficient to say, he is no longer alive. He's the reason I ended up in jail again. He set me up and it got me a 35 years sentence. I have no interest in talking about it further than that.”

“Again? You served time before?” The elevator dings, the doors open and both of them turn to glare threateningly at the lady waiting outside. Her eyes widen and she stutters something about taking the next one. Then the doors slide shut again and their hostile appearance evaporates.

“If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have used the word ‘again’, now would I?” Luce deadpans sarcastically.

“Don’t be an ass, asshole. What did you serve for?”

“So curious,” Luce murmurs.

“Okay, yeah, but you don’t seem like the kinda guy to get caught. That’s all.” Stroking a guy’s ego can be effective. Judging by Lucifer’s pleased smirk, it is.

“What did _you_ serve for?” Luce counters.

“I’ve done three stints. Car theft once, smuggling once, and breaking and entering once. Guilty as charged every time. Been a lucky dog, though. Always got short sentences and always avoided something worse. Like that first time? Some guy tried to rob Sam. He held a gun to Sammy’s head. Shot the fucker dead and stole the car to get away from the crime scene. Sam was with me in the car and when it became apparent we weren’t gonna make a clean getaway I dropped him off with my gun and continued, so he’d get away. I might as well have been busted for fucking murder. Same with the smuggling incident…” The elevator dings on their floor, the doors open and they step out. Luce leads the way one step in front of Dean as they walk almost side by side. “We were smuggling refugees, and to avoid the whole gang along with the fugees getting caught, I sacrificed myself.”

“Self-sacrifice is a habit of yours, it seems. Sam told me you went to prison for him after a break in. Commendable. But I’m not sure if it should really be your go-to solution. We’d have to work on that.” Luce catches himself. “...If you accept the offer to be my trainee, that is.”

Dean scowls at him. “Hey, just because you’d never sacrifice yourse―”

“Involuntary manslaughter,” Lucifer cuts him off. “Two years, when I was 22. It wasn’t manslaughter and it wasn’t involuntary, but _I_ hadn’t done it. Micha had. I, like you, sacrificed myself so he’d go free. Loyalty is everything.”

“So why are you betraying him now?”

Lucifer’s face becomes closed off, eyes dark, as he takes the keycard he’d picked up in the reception and unlocks a door. “My relationship with my brother is between him and I.”

“I don’t know, man. You talk about loyalty then you go stab your brother in the back. And you told Bal Micha was the one who got you out of jail. It doesn’t spell out loyalty to me.”

Luce takes a deep breath for patience, hand on the doorknob. He turns to meet Dean’s gaze. “If you were part of an organization such as ours, where would your greatest loyalty lie? The organization, or Sammy?”

“Sam,” Dean deadpans before Lucifer’s even finished saying the last word.

“There you have it. I’d give the same answer. Micha wouldn’t. Besides, what we’re about to do will hurt the Garrison as a whole more than it will hurt Micha. He’s a survivor. I’m sure he’ll rise from the ruins.” Luce opens the door and steps inside, Dean following on his heels.

“Huh. But what about―” The sound of laughter cuts him off and draws his attention to the hotel room. They’ve entered an open plan kitchen/dining area/living room that looks more like a home than a hotel room, potted plants, nice prints on the wall, blankets and throw pillows on the couch. The Winchesters have only ever stayed in cheap motels or low budget hotels, always choosing the cheapest option, so even if this isn’t the height of luxury, it is for them. Sam and Cas are sitting side by side by the dining table, crammed in in front of Cas’ laptop. By the look of it, they’re having a blast.

Sam looks up when they enter. “Dean! Why haven’t you introduced me to these guys before? The things Cas can do with his laptop are amazing!”

 

“Oh yeah? I’m more interested in what he can do with his tongue,” Dean jokes, earning him an eye roll from Sam and a small quirk of the lip from Cas. Dean’s heart stutters when their eyes meet. Cas is too fucking gorgeous for his own (and Dean’s) good.

Lucifer gives Sam a nod. “Hello, Sam.”

Sam smiles almost shyly at Luce. “Hey,” he replies softly. No wonder Lucifer’s getting ideas. Dean needs to have a chat with Sam. The way he’s acting it’s easy for someone to wrongly interpret it as romantic interest.

* * *

Hartmann’s hotel is an apartment hotel on the outskirts of the business district. It has all the comfort of a real hotel, including room service, a restaurant that serves breakfast as well as dinner, cleaning, etc. But you can just as easily hang the ‘Don’t disturb’ sign and mind your own business for the duration of your stay. It caters to travelling businessmen who stay for more than a couple of days, usually months, and want a more permanent feel to their living arrangement, or who travel with their team/family/partner. The Angelus brothers have chosen the top floor and a two bedroom apartment. Each bedroom has two beds like the motel rooms the Winchesters have stayed in over the years. The bedrooms are on either side of a big room with a living room area and a dining area. The shower is next to one bedroom and the kitchen next to the other. Dean’s a bit torn. On one hand, he wants to share a room with Sam to make sure that his little brother doesn’t have to share with Luce. On the other hand, he wants to share with Cas, for other reasons entirely.

They’re all seated at the dining room table in the big open plan room. The Angelus brothers at one side, and the Winchesters at the other. Maybe this is one of the biggest proofs that Luce really mean they’re free now, because Sam and he are allowed to interact however they want. There are stacks of documents on the table between them―one for Sam and one for Dean. The paperwork for their new identities. Dean’s read through the cheat sheet summary Cas has written for him and honestly, he’s impressed. Like Cas said, it’s really a full life he’s designed for the two of them. Cas is your go-to guy if you want an OC to play in an RPG, that’s for sure.

“Hey, did you manage to confirm that Micha was on that flight?” Sam asks. Dean had been so distracted by the papers on the table, so he hadn’t said anything, and neither had Luce.

“Yes,” Luce answers without elaboration.

“How did he look?” Cas asks, judging by his face there’s some genuine care there. Dean thinks it must be hard, choosing to betray your brother when you still care for him.

“Hale and healthy. No signs of stress except for some annoyance. It seems that Bal had failed to make sure a car was waiting for him.” Luce sniggers. “Bal apparently is a lot more dependant on written instructions than I thought. I know he sets things up last minute to prevent the wrong people from finding out, but failing to do his job because we took the itinerary? That’s just hilarious.”

“That’s why one of Micha’s goons left?” Dean asks.

“Mhm. Most likely.”

“Where do we hit?” Cas asks. “The hotel? Or when they go to insp―” he suddenly cuts off and stares with horrified eyes at the hand Dean drags through his hair. He snatches it and pulls it towards himself, then, holding Dean’s hand to himself with one hand, pulls at the folds of the hankie to reveal ‘`M.A.`’ neatly embroidered with gold thread. “Where did you get this?” he asks urgently.

“Oh. That.” Dean throws a look at Luce, who looks amused. Luce gives him the tiniest nod so Dean looks back at Cas with a cheeky grin. “Your brother gave it to me when he asked me out to dinner.”

Cas face snaps up to stare at Dean with open horror, then at Luce to see if it’s a joke, then back at Dean.

“Micha gave him his phone number,” Luce chips in with a sly, amused smirk.

That must be more significant than Dean had previously understood, because Cas fucking _gasps_ , and for a moment he looks like he’d just watched the scene where Bambi’s mother gets shot. Then his face shutters into a dark mask, pouting. “No. You are ridiculing me.”

Fascinated, Dean can’t help himself but to go on. Luce had been so pissed off, and now he’s compressing his lips, eyes twinkling with mirth, gaze shifting between Cas and Dean as if he’s following a good tennis match. “Nu-uh-uh. Isn’t this―” Dean pulls up the business card from his pocket, the information on it already committed to memory. “―his number?” 

Cas snatches the card from his unresisting hand and stares at it. “This can’t be…” he mutters disbelievingly.

“Gotta tell ya, Cas, your brother’s fucking _hot_. And firm. He felt real good underneath me. And _damn_ , that man really knows how to flirt. Maybe you should take a page out of his playbook?” Dean continues with a teasing smirk. Luce has one arm held against his chest, the elbow of the other rested against it, hand pressed against his mouth as if that’s the only thing keeping him from guffawing. 

Cas fucking eyes, man. Holy shit, they’re so expressive. When he looks back at Dean he looks so desperately heartbroken and dejected Dean wants to throw himself at Cas feet, beg for forgiveness and assure him he’s only joking. He’s too preoccupied by Cas he doesn’t pay much attention when Sam reaches over the table to pluck the card out of Cas’ hand. “That’s… that’s very unfortunate.”

Dean looks at Luce. “Gee. Cas’ isn’t very competitive, is he? Giving up this easy.”

Luce is suppressing giggles but not very well. Cas turns to glare at him, upset. “Why are you not taking this seriously? Regardless of my own emotional investment in this, do you not understand what would happen if Dean would contact Micha again?”

“I do, actually,” Luce chuckles. “He’d meet a very unpleasant death, seeing as he did the same thing to Micha that he did to you.” Luce holds up a fist and lets the key drop from it to dangle from its chain. “With a lot less tongue involved, though. And we need to have a talk about that,” Luce says, turning serious, “because if someone is capable of stealing both guns and credit cards from you without you noticing, I need to be made aware, no matter how much it bruises your ego.”

For someone as smart as Cas, he seems to have trouble keeping up. “He didn't give you his card? You stole it?” he asks Dean.

_What's this obsession with the business card?_

“Nope. He gave it to me alright. After I'd tackled him to the ground and made a complete ass outta myself. It's no big deal.”

“It _is_ a big deal. Due to his position very few have his number. He must have taken a real shine to you to risk it,” Luce explains. “You might understand why I was upset with you, and suspected betrayal.”

“Huh. Didn't think of that.” Hell, it hits him now that even Micha’s brothers didn't have his number. Of course, it's a big deal. (They do now, due to the card. But still.) “But for real, I just wanted to get the key and get away with my life.” He looks at Cas and grins. “In case you hadn't noticed, babe, I'm kinda into you. I mean, I ain't serving myself on a silver platter.” (Well, he kinda is.) “You still have to work for it. I'm a prize. I have to be won,” he declares with a cheeky wink.

Luce sniggers, yet Cas still looks uncertain and apprehensive. 

In all this, Dean has completely forgotten Sam, sitting on the chair beside him. Sam's been very still and quiet since he took the business card, now he speaks up. Dean's too busy gazing into dark ocean blue eyes to pay attention to Sam's inflections like he should. “...Michael _Angelus_ is their brother…” Sam says quietly, his tone somewhere between a statement and a question. 

“Yeah. And you shoulda seen how much Micha and Cas look alike. You can't miss it when you see them,” Dean answers before his brain catches up. “Shit.” He looks at Sam just to be met with a betrayed bitchface. 

“I can't _believe_ you, Dean!”

“Hey, no. I can explain―“

But Sam isn’t interested in hearing Dean’s bullshit. “I need some air,” he mutters and swiftly gets up from the chair, heading for the door.

“No, wait! Sam!”

Both Luce and Dean move to follow. Sam spins around angrily. “Shut up!” He says, pointing at Lucifer. Lucifer’s jaw audibly clicks shut, he holds his hands up placatingly. Sam turns to glare at Dean. “ _They_ killed dad. _They_ had him slaving away, repaying mom's debt with an interest rate going on impossible, until they killed him. It's _their_ fault you didn't get to go to college and I had to quit school at 14.” Sam stabs the air with his finger in the direction of the Angelus brothers for emphasis every time he says they or them. “It's _their_ fault we became homeless and that we ended up in jail. And not _once_ did you think to mention that we're chumming it with the enemy now?! Fuck you, Dean!” With that he turns around and strides out the door, slamming it so hard it rattles on its hinges. 

“ _Shit shit shit!_ ” Dean's up and running towards the door as soon as it closes. He frantically tries to open it, forgetting to push the lock button for a moment. It's enough of a head start that he doesn't catch up to Sam before he reaches the elevator, and only sees Sam's angry face glare coldly at him before the doors slide shut, separating them. He runs back to the room where Luce stands in the doorway looking worried. “I need a phone! Quickly!” Dean demands. “And your numbers.”

“Cas, give him a burner,” Luce commands, then to Dean, “Is it true what he said?”

Cas is busy programming their numbers into a phone while Dean answers. “What? That _you_ did all that? I fucking hope not. But the Garrison sure did. Like I told you, I didn't pick that office to rob at random.”

Luce hums in concern. “Maybe I could talk to him―“

“No way, man. I'll do it. You guys stay put and keep your phones turned on. Yo, Cas! Phone!” Cas throws the cheap burner phone to him and Dean ducks back out in the corridor. Sam has one elevator ride down, up, and down again for a head start. 

It turns out it's enough. When Dean reaches the street, Sam is nowhere in sight.

* * *


	13. BROTHER DEAREST

* * *

**BROTHER DEAREST**

* * *

The thing is, they don’t really have any favourite haunts in this city. Well. Dean does. But Sam doesn’t. He isn’t in the rundown studio apartment they’re sharing and not in the coffee shop across from it where they have free wifi, and once those two options are struck from the list, then Dean’s got no clue where Sam would’ve gone. He’d searched the area around the hotel first, gone increasingly further in every direction until he gave up and went home to check their apartment. It’s been hours and now Dean’s back near the business district, wandering aimlessly.

Sam doesn’t make permanent connections like Dean does. He makes friends. Sure he does. With other activists involved in whatever crusade he’s currently on. He just doesn’t keep them. He walks away as soon as the battle is over, and at any sign of unrest, he flits to Dean to find a joint solution. Sam also ‘borrows’ Dean’s friends, and hangs out with them, but doesn’t get permanently attached to them. Maybe it’s because Sam was younger when they became homeless. Or maybe it's due to the rejection he's faced because he's a street rat. Dean's not sure. The point is, that when he and Dean have a fight and Sam runs out on Dean―because this isn't the first time―Dean has no clue where to look.

He's been in contact with the Angelus brothers a couple of times, giving updates and getting reassured that the Garrison most likely hasn’t connected Sam to Dean yet even if the Garrison’s people would be on the lookout for Dean already. 

Now Dean's wandering in a shopping area nearby a park. He gets the idea to go to the park. Sam's a nature nut, right? 

_Bingo._

Sam's sitting on a bench by a small pond, staring at something in his hands. His whole posture is droopy and sad.

Sam doesn't look up yet when Dean gets closer he says, “Go away.”

“Yeah, no. You know I ain't gonna do that.” Dean sits down next to Sam on the bench and looks at what he's holding. It's a pair of salt and pepper shakers in the shape of penguins with bowties. That explains where Sam went. “What else did you take?”

Sam hands him the shakers and procures one of those magic wands filled with water and glitter from his sleeve, a bunny harness from Petco from a pocket, a banana cutter from another pocket, and a pair of fluffy, purple lady slippers from inside his shirt. 

“Gee, Sammy, it's like you go out of your way to take stuff we don't need.” But maybe that's it? In every normal household, there are loads of useless stuff lying around. It's a sign of safety and permanency. Like when they had Rocinante. Dean had been the one doting on the car as if it was a sentient. But Sam had been the one to fill the car with utter crap. A Penguins flag hanging from the rearview mirror, a wobble head of Obama, a wooden bead seat cover, a seat belt plushie, useless shit. None of them is even a Penguins fan for Christ sake! 

Maybe this is Sam's way of nesting? Take these salt and pepper shakers for an instance. Useless, since they got their spices in one-serving packages by the fistfuls at McDonald's. At the same time, Sam seemed more at ease with life on the road. He never really unpacked when they moved into an apartment or rented a room that they expected to be more permanent. (Which is good, because when he does, he’s a fucking slob.) Not like Dean. In their current apartment, you could see which side is Sam’s and which is Dean’s. Dean unpacked everything but the getaway bag. Everything he could afford to lose. He put up posters or paintings he found in garage sales. Sam’s side is bare except for the books he’s currently reading.

Sam crosses his arms over his chest, stretches out is long legs, crossing them at the ankles. “You should have let him _die_ ,” he says darkly, staring at his shoes. Sorrow flickers over his face, then it goes darkly determined.

“Let who die?”

“Lucifer. You shouldn’t have saved his life.”

“Um. Yeah… about that. That’s not quite how it went.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was less me saving his life, and more him sparing mine…”

Sam frown and turns his head to give Dean a quizzical look.

“I met him when I tried to get away from the cops. Tore his car door open, dived into his car, put a gun to his head and yelled at him to drive. He pulled the passenger seat back and told me to hide in the footwell until the cops had passed. Cool as fucking ice, man. I threatened to shoot Cas once we'd picked him up and Luce pulled his gun on me. Thought I was done for. It's scary to be at the wrong end of a gun. Fuck, but it's worse when it has a silencer. You _know_ this guy ain't messing around. But they spared me. I'm not dead in a ditch somewhere like I could be. Like I _should_.”

Sam looks back at his feet. “You should have told me.”

“I would have. But that would have broken the deal I made with them. They kept us separate so I wouldn't get a chance. The deal was to deliver those items and they'd let us go. They could have left it at that, but they didn't. We've got like 70 grand waiting for us along with identities offering us a fresh start.”

“No. We're not going back to them. I don't care.”

“Sammy, come on. Sure, Lucifer’s an asshole. Cas too, I guess. But I think they’re the real deal. They’re keeping their word. They’re fucked up, but hey, who isn’t? Right?”

“They’ve _ruined our lives_!”

“Have they? Look, I hit the Garrison office and got my hands on the stuff they were after before I even met them. It means I woulda had the mafia part of the Garrison after me without even knowing about it. At least now I’ve been warned.”

Sam turns his head towards Dean, jaw set in stubborn anger. “They _are_ the Garrison.”

Dean runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Sam. They’re hitting the Garrison. They’re not―”

“No. They _are_ the Garrison. They’re part of it. I don’t care. They’re guilty of all the shit that happened to us,” Sam insists obstinately.

Dean starts feeling slightly desperate. “Dammit, Sam. Think about it!” Dean will forever and ever hate himself for what he says next. He’ll need to drink a wat of acid to burn the words out of his mouth. He can practically see the self-satisfied smirk on Lucifer’s face for his inner eye, if he knew what Dean was about to say. Fuck. Dean hopes he never finds out. “Maybe Luce is right? Yeah, he’s a conceited douchenozzle and I’d sorely like to punch his smug face. He’s got this weird idea that he stands a chance with you. That’s your fault by the way. You’ve been misleading him. Gotta think about what vibes you put out, Sam,” Dean chides. “But you don’t have to worry about it, cuz I told him I’d castrate him if I even suspect that he’d gotten handsy with you.” Sam studies his nails intently at that. That’s right. He should be embarrassed. “But that aside, maybe our meeting _is_ fate? Maybe this is our chance to find out what really happened to dad? And to fucking finally hit the Garrison where it hurts. With them we’ve got someone on the inside, right? Can it really be a coincidence? Like, both he and I had albino pets that represent who we are, for Christ sake. I’mma street rat and he’s a snake. We’re both looking out for our little brothers and all four of us have a bone to pick with the Garrison. I just happened to steal what they needed to do it. And I really like Cas, and Luce said he and you had the start of a beautiful friendship or whatever. Doesn’t that sound like destiny to you?”

Sam’s uncertain gaze flits to Dean’s for a beat before he decisively glowers at his feet again. “I’m not going to team up with the enemy I want to destroy.”

“But, Sammy―” Dean starts to plead and is promptly cut off.

“No. You’re just thinking with your dick. All you want is to fuck Cas. You’re not thinking clearly.”

Dean deflates and a prolonged silence descends. 

Maybe Sam’s right? Maybe he isn’t thinking clearly. The Angelus brothers had all made an impact on him. He is tempted to take the offer of being taught by Luce, Michael had had him thinking a lot of ‘If only’s’, wanting to get to know the guy. And that’s not even counting what havoc Cas wrought on his feelings. Hell, but in his head, the thoughts went at a waltz rhythm― _one-two-three-Cas_ ―over and over, with Cas as every fourth thought and he’s barely known the guy for 24 hours! Of course he isn’t thinking clearly. He’s being stupid. Led around witlessly by his heart. Fuck, but Sam has him dead to rights here. 

“So now what? I steal a car for us and we get the hell out of Dodge?” Dean asks dispiritedly, picking up the magic wand from the bench, turning it up and down, watching the glitter inside swirl.

“...Yes.”

“Alright.” Dean takes up the burner phone and changes the setting to not show your own number when you make a call. Then he punches the number he’s committed to memory. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sam look at him with a bemused and curious frown. It rings.

“ _Michael Angelus, speaking._ ”

“Hi, Michael.”

Sam’s eyes widen in alarm.

“ _Hi, Tom. Didn’t think I’d hear from you. I’m glad you called._ ” Micha’s voice is pleasant. Dean had expected instant threats or hatefulness. But when he thinks about it, no, of course, he wouldn’t. Nor would Cas or Luce. It would have been a tactical error on their part.

Dean rubs his temple with the hand not pressing the phone to his ear. “Yeah… I get that. Listen, I’ve got some information you might wanna hea―”

Sam rips the phone from Dean in panic and hangs up, getting to his feet. “Holy hell, Dean! What are you _doing_?!”

“Nailing the enemy and possibly gaining us the freedom not to have to look over our shoulders in fear of the fucking mafia.”

“You were going to give them up?!”

“Yeah.”

“But they'd get killed!”

“Hey, you're the one who says they are as responsible as whoever _actually_ killed dad. If they're to be counted as part of the Garrison, then they are. They were born into it, just like we were born to be Winchesters. They didn't have a choice. But that's life, right?” Sam's looking severely distressed now. Dean goes on. “And you're right. I'm not thinking clearly where Cas is concerned. He's a fucking psycho killer. I _know_ that. Yet he, with his stupid face and stupid vocabulary and stupid sexy voice and stupid blue eyes that shift like the ocean and stupid blushing, has me turned around and chasing my own tail. His dumbfuck gummy smile makes me forget words and makes it feel like every cell in my body bursts into giggle fits. He fills me with butterflies and the briefest touch gives me fucking goosebumps. How am I supposed to trust my decisions when he fucks me up that much? But I will _never_ not choose you above anyone else. If I give him up to Michael, at least I don't have to go around wondering what coulda been…”

Sam looks like Dean just ran a spear through his chest. Droopy shoulders and a crushed puppy-eyed expression that makes Dean want to cry. “Jesus, Dean. That's not thinking with your _dick_.”

“It doesn't matter, Sammy. You take priority over my stupid crush on the bad guy. I'm not going to make you feel betrayed when you're the most important thing in my life.”

Sam steps up to Dean and crouches down on the ground, resting his elbows on Dean's knees, hands hanging limply between Dean's legs. “It's not right.”

“I know it ain't, that's why I'm making it right.”

Sam shakes his head. “No.” He reaches down and takes something from his pocket. When he holds it between Dean's legs, smoothing it out, Dean suddenly can't breathe. There's a lump in his throat too big to swallow past. He feels his eyes prickles.

“You… you kept it?” Dean's voice comes out wobbly and weak. He carefully plucks the acceptance letter from Sam's unresisting hands. It's been carefully taped together where Dean tore it in pieces seven years ago. The paper is worn and smudged from frequent fingering. 

“Yeah. I kept it to remind me of all you've had to sacrifice... I remember that day when you ripped it up. You sort of, I don't know, gave up after that. Normally I take it out and it fuels my anger when I feel like we're up against odds that make me want to quit.” Sam's quiet for a moment, looking at the letter in Dean's hand. “You, uh, after you ripped it up you stopped arguing against me when I wanted us to do something… you just laid up plans to make it reality… I never once heard you say ‘No, Sam, I want… insert blank,’ after that.” Sam falls quiet again. Dean's vision starts to get blurry. Fuck, but he isn't going to bawl like a fucking baby. He's _not_ , okay? “And now… you were arguing as if your life depended on it―”

“I’m sorry, Sammy, I―”

“Stop.”

Dean’s mouth snap shut as Sam digs his hands into his hair and hangs his head, still supporting himself with his elbows on Dean’s knees. “I felt so deceived. For the past nine years, I hated everything that had to do with the Garrison with a burning passion. Luce… and Cas… but mostly Luce, he, uh…” Sam takes a deep breath, refusing to look Dean in the eye. “I, uh, I think he’s pretty damned awesome. He’s cool, and caring, and smart, and cares about nature, and―” He pauses and takes another deep breath. “Then to find out that he’s part of the organisation that ruined our lives. I feel made a total fool of.”

“He’s an asshole.”

“He’s a lot like you.”

“Like hell he is.”

A shadow of a smile passes over Sam’s downturned face. “You can be an asshole too.”

“Point taken.” Dean strokes the acceptance letter he’s still holding on to. It makes Sam let go of his hair to look up and track the movement.

“Dean, I don’t want to be the reason you sacrifice another thing you want.”

Dean lifts a hand to rub away the built up tears before they fall. “Dude, I’ve known Cas for 24 hours. I’ll get over it.”

Sam shakes his head and looks up with those damned puppy eyes. “Do you really think they’re the real deal? Be honest.”

Dean’s on the verge of reassuring Sam that the two of them can go fuck themselves and he doesn’t really care about Cas and his big brother as long as Sam’s happy, but he stops himself. “Yeah… yeah, I do. They’ve kept their word every step of the way. And after I stole the key from Michael, Lucifer chewed me out, yelling ‘what am I supposed to tell your brother if something happens to you’. He seemed to give a fuck, for real. And I think Cas really likes me.”

“He does. He’s been asking questions about you all day, fretting like a teenager with a crush.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, feeling a happy thrill in his belly before he remembers that they’re leaving Cas behind and he deflates like a wet rag again.

“Yeah. I think… I think I’m overreacting. We should give them a chance.”

“You sure?” Dean perks up hopefully.

“Yeah. But what if they betray us?” Sam looks up at him with uncertainty, looking like a small boy again, as if Dean held all the answers.

“Then we’ll burn that bridge when we get there.”

Sam looks at him for a beat, then he chuckles. “You know the expression is we’ll _cross_ that bridge when we get there, right?” he points out and lifts an amused eyebrow.

“Not for us Winchesters, it ain’t,” Dean jokes.

Sam sniggers. “True. ...Let’s go back.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Yes, I am.”

This time when Dean makes a phone call it’s with a light heart, telling Cas that they’re on their way back.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I love this chapter. I got all choked up by the brotherly feels. :') Hope you did too. Please, feel free to comment!


	14. DIVIDE AND CONQUER

* * *

**DIVIDE AND CONQUER**

* * *

It takes the full walk to the hotel to give Sam all the information Dean now knows about the Garrison and the brothers, then when they get back, Luce and Sam sequester themselves in a room for half an hour to talk. It leaves Cas and Dean alone by the table. It’s pretty awkward, if nothing else because Dean keeps thinking about how he almost sold Cas and Luce out. Cas has put his aviators on and immersed himself in whatever he’s doing on his laptop. Dean gets up and wanders, inspecting the rooms. When he strays too close to the closed door where Sam and Luce have taken refuge the tap-tap-tapping sound from the keyboard stops and Cas clears his throat.

_No eavesdropping. Got it._

Dean can’t really stand the quiet. Every time he throws a glance Cas’ way, Cas’ head snaps back to the monitor as if he’d been staring even though the clickety-click of the keyboard only stopped when Dean was about to eavesdrop. “Like the view?” Dean asks when it happens for the bazillionth time.

“Immensely,” Cas agrees and turns his head to stare openly now that he’s been called out on it.

Dean gives him a lopsided smirk, then turns his attention to a potted plant. It’s one of those eerily realistic fake ones. All the plants in the room are. “We didn’t find out mom was a junkie until years after she’d ODd. Dad kept a journal that we found after his death. Up until then, we thought she died of cancer because that’s what dad told us. She’d gotten involved with the Garrison and worked up a substantial debt to them. Due to how the contract was written, dad was saddled with her debt after she died,” Dean tells Cas apropos nothing, just to fill the silence. The clicking stops. Dean casts a glance Cas’ way to find that Cas has put his hands in his lap and is focusing wholly on Dean. Dean moves on to inspect the next plant. “Dad was shot, the murderer never found. A robbery gone wrong, they told us. Only, after the funeral, Raphael Angelus was waiting for us outside of our house when we got back. He gave us, what? 48 hours or something to vacate the house. I don’t even remember anymore. Mom had left the house as collateral for the money she owed and the interest rate was insane enough that dad never managed to clear it.” Dean looks out of the window at the street far below then at the surrounding rooftops, also below. “Something always bugged me about getting evicted like that, but I couldn’t put my finger on what until I met you.”

“I would think getting evicted would abrade you for self-explanatory reasons.”

“Yeah… except,” Dean turns around and leans his hip against the window sill. “When people die, there’s a lot of paperwork that needs to be done. The close kin is informed, of course. But companies can keep sending bills for months if they’re not informed. If nothing else, they check in when a payment is missed. It falls on the closest kin to call companies, cancel subscriptions and services, and so on and so forth.”

Cas tilts his head curiously. “Quite right,” he answers but lilts it upward a bit to make it a query.

“Dad paid all his bills the same day he got his paycheck. He got paid the last of every month and he died at the beginning of the month. He was buried a week after his death. So my question is this. How did the Garrison find out he was dead fast enough to get the court order of our eviction within a week?” Cas draws breath as if to answer, but Dean talks over him. “It’s a rhetorical question, babe. I get that they shot him themselves.” Dean’s not hostile, nor is his posture or tone. He’s not putting any blame. He’s musing out loud. 

Cas remains quiet now, looking at him in wait for the next part so Dean walks up to the table and sits down opposite Cas. “What I don’t get is _why_? Dad was a money cow. He wasn’t about to suddenly pay off the debt and he was reliable, always paid on time. It doesn’t make any sense to suddenly do away with him. Can you explain that to me?” He leans his elbows on the table and pins Cas with an openly interested expression.

“Where and when was this?”

“Lawrence, Kansas. Nine years ago.”

Cas turns to tap on his keyboard, press enter, then turn back towards Dean. “You lived on Heather street?”

“Yeah?”

“We wanted the house. It lay on the end of a street and was one out of five houses we acquired and tore down to build a warehouse in that spot.”

“You keep records of why you kill people?”

“No. That would be foolish. But we keep records of property we legally own, and when we acquired it.”

_Dad died because of a fucking warehouse. Fucking hell._

“Dude. Couldn’t you just have asked us to move?” Dean asks rhetorically. Of course they could have, but it would be a piss-poor option for the mafia. Then they would have had to convince a stubborn-ass Winchester to move, and _buy_ the house in question, when they already ‘owned’ the house. Whatever went on in the warehouse would gain them a much larger monthly income than John Winchester did, slaving away. He holds up a hand to stop Cas from answering. “Don’t answer that.”

Cas doesn't seem to know what to say now. 

“Hey, Cas? Did you or Luce kill dad?”

“No,” Cas says without missing a beat. 

“You sure?”

“Yes. Neither of us has been to Lawrence.”

“Can you help us find out who shot him?”

Even with his aviators on Cas manages to look regretful. “I'm afraid not. The matter is too insignificant for anyone of us to have done anything but send an expendable. ...If this was a recent event I might have been able to find out. But 9 years…? No. The likelihood of Uriel or Raphael even knowing the name of the thug carrying out the deed back when it was done, is slim.”

Dean clenches his jaw in the silence that follows. Cas remains motionless as Dean reaches out to remove the sunshades from his face. He’s not going to allow Cas to hide his soul for this conversation. Dean carefully folds the earpieces and puts the aviators on the table beside himself with exaggerated care without breaking their locked gaze. His eyes are cold and his voice sweet as he says “I'm sorry, would you repeat that? I didn't think I heard you right.”

Fuck Cas and his blue puppy eyes. Cas swallows, posture going even more stiff than usual. Despite his apparent discomfort he doesn’t back down. “The lives of you and your father were deemed too insignificant for an Angelus to bother with.”

And damned if it's not nauseating to hear. Blunt to the point of cruelty.

“I wish I could tell you I'm sorry, but it would be hypocritical of me,” Cas adds.

“How's that?” Dean probes curtly.

“Every misdeed done against you by my family, as well as my father's megalomaniac ways, applying _divide et impera_ to dealing with his own sons, is what led us to make acquaintance. Hence, I cannot in good conscience claim a wish for you to not have experienced life the way you have. Along the same lines, my own past misfortunes stand in a very benefic light since yesterday.”

Dean gives him a flat look. “Holy fuck, Cas. I honestly think I’ve never ever so heatedly wanted to break someone’s nose for giving me what’s supposedly a genuine compliment.”

Cas cheeks turn a wonderful shade of crimson but Dean’s not really in a state to appreciate it. ‘I’m glad your family died and you had to give up your home and your dreams so we could meet’, is psychotic levels of romantic. “Would you rather I offer you false condolences?”

“I dunno, man. But that’s some second level Hamilton brown-nosing.”

Cas squints and tilts his head in lack of understanding. “I don’t understand that reference.”

“From ‘Helpless’? In Hamilton?” Dean insists. Cas makes a frustrated noise and squints even worse. Maybe he needs to get his eyes checked. Heh. Cas in glasses, now there’s a thought! “ _You_ know,” Dean persists. “Like he says to Eliza when they’re introduced. ‘ _If it takes fighting a war for us to meet, it will have been worth it._ ’”

“But neither of us have fought in a war?”

Dean rolls his eyes so hard he fears they might get stuck in the back of his head. “I don’t mean literally. And speak for yourself. Me an’ Sammy’s been at war with the Garrison for years. But come on, man. You can’t seriously mean you’ve never heard of Hamilton?”

“Is it a movie? I do not consume a lot of pop culture.”

“Holy crap, you’ve been living under a rock, or what? Hamilton is a musical and it’s fucking _awesome_. I can’t believe you’ve missed it. There’s this one song where―”

Sam’s voice cuts him off. “Oh no! What did you do, Cas? I thought Dean’s Hamilton craze was finally over,” he whines.

Dean turns around in his chair to see Sam and Luce stand in the doorway of the room they’d been cooped up in to talk. Luce is standing far too close to Sam for Dean’s liking.

“You don’t like Hamilton, Sammy? And here I was, thinking you had taste,” Luce chirps with a playful smirk.

“Dude. He kept stealing my laptop when I needed it, just so he could watch Hamilton animatics.”

“Hey. Remember who got you that laptop in the first place,” Dean protests. “You should be glad. I could have spent the time watching porn and jerking off. You wouldn’t have liked to share a room with me then.” Sam scoffs and Luce sniggers. Dean looks at Luce. “And Sam’s got piss-poor taste. He listens to stuff like Jamiroquai and Big Mountain and shit like that.”

Luce makes a face. “Why don’t you listen to real music, Sammy? Like AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, or Pink Floyd?”

“Hah!” Dean exclaims, at the same time as Sam goes “Ugh. Remember what I said about Luce and you?” to Dean.

“When it comes to music, I’ll take the comparison. So. You guys kissed and made up yet?”

Sam blushes and Luce smirks.

Dean scowls and adds “I meant figuratively, asswipe. Don’t even think about it.”

Lucifer’s smirk gets bigger. “We’re on friendly terms again, yes. How about you two?”

“Cas has reminded me that he’s a dickhead of huge proportions. Lucky for him he’s so hot or I _would_ have punched him,” Dean answers with a shiteating grin.

Luce seems absolutely delighted at hearing this. Dean’s started to suspect seeing Cas flounder his way through flirting is prime entertainment to Luce. “My, my. What did he say this time?”

“He said he’s glad dad died and we turned homeless as teens.”

Cas scoffs. “That’s not―!” He looks at Luce and spouts a quick harangue in Russian. Whatever he says makes Luce burst out laughing.

“Smooth, little brother. Really smooth,” Lucifer teases.

“Wait. He actually said that?” Sam asks bemusedly.

“I told Dean I’m glad we met, Sam. Not that I take pleasure out of your misfortune. What I mean is, that if the sad circumstances that have befallen you, hadn’t, you wouldn’t have been intellectually prepared to accordantly accept that Lucifer and I are what we are, and as such any sort of benignant feelings towards us would have been rendered impossible,” Cas explains.

Sam blinks, then makes a sturgeon face and a half shrug. “Yeah, that makes sense.” Luce puts a hand somewhere in the middle of Sam’s back and guides him towards the table. Dean might need to break Lucifer’s hand one of these days.

“You don’t think that’s fucked up?” Dean asks Sam.

“Well, yeah. Sure. But it’s true, isn’t it?” Sam sits down beside Dean, and Luce walks around to plop himself down beside Cas. Sam goes on, gesturing with his hand while he speaks.“Look. If we _hadn’t_ lost dad and our home, we’d grown up to be like normal people. I’d be in college, working on getting my PhD, and you would be working for NASA, building rockets or whatever. You remember how you felt the first time you had to steal something to survive, right? So that feeling would never have gone away. The thought of murder would have been inconceivable. We’d have viewed these guys as the ultimate evil, never giving them a chance.”

Gotta hand it to Sam, for a guy who was calling these guys enemies an hour ago, he’s awfully quick to change his mind.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, man. He also told me the Garrison did order dad killed. It wasn’t Cas or Luce who did it, but some street-level thug. Dad died so they could take our house, tear it down, and build a fucking warehouse on the property.”

 _That_ makes Sam’s face darken, lips compressed to a thin line. “Who ordered it?” he asks.

“Raphael or Uriel,” Dean answers then turns to look at the Angelus brothers. “What I don’t get, is why Raphael went to give us the eviction notice. Isn’t he an angel? I thought we were too insignificant to merit personal attention.”

“By my guess he was there to make a full inspection of the whole area,” Cas answers.

“He’s very hard working. He’d be likely to get shit done by himself if it isn’t too much of a hassle,” Luce adds. “Dropping by a house and tell two kids to get lost isn’t a big deal if it’s on the way to something else. As for your other question, Raphael is an Arch, just like me. 9 years ago he was working directly under his father, uncle Uriel. Uriel groomed him to take over his jurisdiction. Today Uriel has an overseeing position, like Micha, except Uriel was always more interested in the legal aspects of the business, so he oversees how the corporation hides our illegal endeavours, while Micha looks at everything.”

“How do you feel about your uncle and cousin dying?” Sam asks coldly. The hatred in his face isn’t directed at Cas and Luce, though. Sam’s finally gotten names of those directly responsible. 

“All for it. We can put it on our to-do list after Cas and I have lain low for a while following our heist. If you wish, we can pluck every Arch one by one, except Micha. And Gabe, if he resurfaces.”

That’s pretty harsh, but Cas nods along his agreement as Luce speaks. Dean’s not quite at a place yet where he in good conscience can make a death list and go around murdering people. Raphael, sure, but where do you draw the line?

“How come you’re not an Arch, Cas?” Sam asks curiously, frown smoothing out now that he’s got a green light on vengeance. “You’re a son of the big boss and all your brothers are Archs. From what Dean said once you’ve gotten your wings you can’t be promoted.”

_Oh, yeah. That’s an interesting question._

Cas and Luce share a look.

“My heritage was put into question before I got my wings. Father bestowed me with rank before the matter was settled.”

“Holy shit. He didn't believe that you were his son?”

“Of course he did,” Luce scoffs. “And so did his brothers that officially brought it up to question. It's purely a matter of power struggle. Dad and uncle Met, who was his right hand, enjoyed drama more than anything. They'd play mind games on all of us, making us turn against each other so their control remained absolute.”

“Divide et impera,” Dean says. That's what Cas had meant. Divide and conquer. Sam looks at him funny for using latin. Screw him.

Luce snaps his fingers and points at Dean. “Exactly.”

“But I don't understand,” Sam chips in. “Wouldn't he be undermining his own power if he put his own sons in lower ranks?”

“Mhm. That's why he demanded that all his brothers made at least one of their children a common angel. In some cases choosing whom himself.”

Their old man called himself God and demanded his underlings to sacrifice their sons. That’s some old testament-y bullshit. “Let me guess,” says Dean. “He picked the most ambitious ones, that might have been vying for his position. Was Bal one of them?” Which might be why Cas likes him. He might feel a kinship to another one of the sacrificed heirs. “And if he was, the moment he was snubbed he gave up and turned into the zero-fucks-given dude I met, didn’t he?”

The way Luce hums his agreement sounds more like a content cat purring. He looks like it too. Eyelids lowered, a small smile on his face, looking at Dean with that creepy fondness. As if Dean was a dog showing off a trick.

“Were you after your dad's position?” Sam asks Cas. It’s a good question. Why would ‘God’ tolerate his own son being thrown under the bus? There’s got to be a motive behind that. Seriously. If Micha is the oldest and isn’t suspected of having another father, and Cas the youngest, looking so much like his oldest brother, questioning his parentage is insane.

Cas makes a cute little amused rumble. “Lord, no. I was about to create our first cyber division. The elders did not see the importance of it, though. They are so-called ‘old school’.” Cas grins a gummy grin that makes Dean’s belly flipflop like a stranded fish. “Father and uncle Met even utilized old typewriters instead of computers,” Cas giggles as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

“And if they did see the importance, they'd feel threatened by it,” Sam states.

“You mean there's no cyber division right now? That would make the Garrison vulnerable to cyber attacks,” Dean adds.

“ _Quite,_ ” Cas agrees smugly. “Especially since I designed most of our digital security.”

Dean starts feeling excitement for what that means. A glance at Sam reveals that Sam's feeling the same enthusiasm. Dean turns to look at Luce. “What's your jurisdiction?” he asks, thinking that maybe that could help them as well. 

Lucifer’s expression goes flat, lips compressing, arms crossing over his chest. Cas’ uncertain gaze flits to Lucifer for a beat.

In the context of what they know now it's telling. “You don't have one...” Dean hedges. “Fuck me, but they marooned you and railroaded Cas.”

“Indeed,” Luce confirms dryly. 

“But Bal told you to go back to your jurisdiction,” Dean pries. That doesn’t quite add up. Except it had pissed Luce the hell off when Bal said it. 

“We don't have a prison division led by an Arch.” Lucifer’s voice drips with bitter venom. Most criminal organizations have one. Someone high ranking who controls jailed members from within after getting locked up themselves.

“Once Luce was convicted Father suggested that we wouldn’t attempt to get him out.”

“Jeezus Christ. He had a bible obsession, or what? Throw Lucifer in the cage?” Dean’s slightly stunned, but it quickly turns into amusement. “Heh. You sure played along well,” he tells Lucifer with a grin. “Gettin’ yourself a snake. Handing out fruits of knowledge to outsiders and allowing them to exercise free will, deciding for themselves whether to join the Garrison or not. Bet your old man wasn’t a fan of that.”

Luce snorts dismissively. Then, after a beat he makes a sturgeon face, conceding to the point as if he hadn’t looked at it that way before.

“But you got out.” Sam’s tone makes it a statement, but his expression a question.

“Mhm. Dad used Micha as our go-between to give me orders while I was in lockup, since he had enough brain cells to know I wouldn’t listen to anyone but Micha. Micha always did what dad commanded. Even after dad’s death he still keeps up dad’s rules and orders. With one exception.”

“He got you out.”

“Yes. He hasn’t sought me out since then, and I’ve done everything in my power to get a hold of him. The problem is that nobody wants me to talk to him now that I’m free, thinking I’d convince him of changing the state of things. You saw what Bal did. I know he won’t even tell Micha I was there. He might mention you, but I’m certain Micha would have called me if he knew I was looking for him.”

“Although, we aren’t looking anymore,” Cas chips in. “We got tired of being brushed aside. We’re about to mete out a punishment for those who wronged us.”

“What we’re about to do, will destroy the Garrison from within. We were talking while you, Sammy, were out taking your... walk. Now we’d like to ask the two of you if you’d like to join us in this endeavour?”

Sam and Dean look at each other for a moment, then, as one, they direct themselves towards the Angelus brothers and answer in unison.

“ _Hell yeah_.”  
“ _Hell yeah_.”

* * *


	15. PROFOUND BOND

* * *

 

**PROFOUND BOND**

* * *

They’ve been arguing about what to have for dinner for 20 minutes now, the four of them. Dean and Cas want to go to the steakhouse across the street. Luce might act like some kind of apex predator but he’s a fucking grass-eater, insisting on the fucking _vegan_ place down the block, having Sam on his side. It’s getting ridiculous. Dean leans towards Sam and whispers “I hate to ask this of you, but could you consider spending some time alone with Luce the douche?”

Sam raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Uh, yeah. Sure,” he whispers back, sounding hesitantly happy about it. He’s probably tickled pink by having someone to discuss all that environmental bullshit with. Good for him. Better for Dean.

Dean sits up straight and bops Cas’ foot with his own. “Gee, Cas. We’ve reached a stalemate. Can’t you think of a good solution to this problem?” he says and waggles his eyebrows meaningfully.

“I’m not consuming _lentils_ as my main source of protein, Dean,” Cas exclaims heatedly with a deep frown.

“How about tofu?” Luce ribs with an amused smirk. He’s been taunting the hell out of Cas, and Cas, to Lucifer’s great enjoyment, has long since lost his cool about it, steam practically coming out of his ears.

“No!”

“Soybeans?”

“Will you please stop badinage. I’m surfeited with your raillery, Lucifer.”

Luce fucking giggles.

Dean would too, except he’s hungry and not even Cas’ vocabulary can counter the effects on his patience. He kicks Lucifer’s shin under the table, getting his attention. “Yo. MapQuest,” he says and jerks his head in Cas direction while meeting Lucifer’s questioning gaze.

Lucifer grins. For a moment Dean thinks the asshole doesn’t get it. But then Luce leans towards Cas and theatrically whispers behind his hand so everyone can hear, “This would be a good time to ask Dean out to dinner, only the two of you. ...As in a date.”

The way Cas’ fierce scowl fades into an expression of revelation is hilarious. Dean very pointedly doesn’t laugh. He can be polite when it suits him. (And he kinda wants Cas to pursue him. It’s more fun that way.) Luce, equally pointedly, _does_. Dean tries not to think about the fact that he’s developing private jokes/cues with Cas’ older brother. At least Sam’s giving Luce a good bitchface for being rude to Cas. So there’s that.

Cas turns towards Dean and takes a fortifying breath, even more straight-backed than usual. “Dean. May I suggest that we seek solitude from these herbivores? It would be a great privilege for me if you’d allow me to, um… if you’d join me for repast, um…” Cas fumbles his way through the invite with determination all while Luce silently sniggers, shoulders jumping.

Dean can’t help himself. “Why, Cas… are you asking me out?” he counters innocently.

Cas’ cheeks are getting adorably rosy. “I am, yes.”

“Think you can manage to make smalltalk a full dinner date without telling me how glad you are that my dad got murdered?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam scolds, giving him a slap on the arm. Luce covers his mouth with his hand to keep from laughing out loud, eyes twinkling with delight, and Cas deflates sullenly.

“Looking at my track record, most likely no,” Cas grumbles.

Dean chuckles. “Lucky I can look past a few blunders then, huh?” he says and winks.

Cas perks up. “You accept?” he asks in surprise.

This time Dean doesn’t hold back his laughter. “Yeah, Cas, I do.”

* * *

“...better than me at everything, save handling firearms and computers. And when it comes to shooting fast and accurate, I _barely_ outmatch him. I’ve been competing with him since I learned to crawl, yet he always prevails. As much as I love my brother, it’s _quite_ stymieing.”

“Bet Michael doesn’t have the same broad vocabulary as you, though,” Dean offers.

“Oh, he does.” Cas suddenly smirks smugly. “He simply doesn’t know how to use it.”

Dean throws his head back laughing and Cas smiles at him as if he's won a grand prize. Cas takes great pleasure out of ‘confabulating’ with Dean. He's said so himself. Even if he looks a bit vexed when Dean laughs because he uses words like ‘confabulate’ instead of ‘chat’. “Nobody uses their vocabulary quite like you, babe. But I have to admit that Michael makes pretty good use of a more limited vocab. I spoke to him for less than 5 minutes and he almost had me considering treason there for a beat.”

Cas face goes dark. He reaches out to take a sip of his beer. “I don't see why you felt a need to inform me of that.”

“Would you rather I offer you false condolences?” Dean jokes innocently. They've sat here talking for an hour and a half already, eating so slowly the food had gotten cold, yet neither of them cared. (Besides, the breadsticks had sated Dean's immediate hunger just fine.) Cas has taken the whole date thing very seriously. He's held doors, pulled out chairs, stolen a flower in the hotel foyer and given Dean. Dean fucking loves it. Sure, he could have taken the lead on this himself. But like a stubborn bitch, he insists on Cas courting _him_. Hell, it’s already in the bag anyway. And Cas said he wanted to savour his treats, didn’t he? Dean’s had fast and dirty sex aplenty but hasn’t had much of this romantic crap. Is it really that weird if he too wants to savour his treats?

Cas’ lips quirk in a corner. “Ah. I see. You’re chaffing me.” He takes another sip of his beer. “I wish I knew what Micha's secret is. I know I can't compete with either his beauty nor his social skills. But his persuasive abilities go way above what most are capable of.”

“Now hold it right there, buddy. Yeah, Michael is hot _and_ pretty. Ain't gonna lie. But my thought seeing him was that he's _almost_ as hot as you. So you can scratch that bullshit about not being up to par in the looks department. Second off, I can tell you what his secret is.”

Cas once again blushes, even if he doesn't look convinced that Dean’s honest about the comparison. “What is it then?”

“He makes you feel like you matter. Like you're the most important thing. I'm not stupid _and_ I had been warned. I knew I was being manipulated and _still_ got affected by it. But don't worry about it, Cas. Mind control might not be your superpower but you're pretty damn awesome anyway.”

Cas lips quirk upward as he bows his head. “I find you utterly entrancing.” He looks up, amused now. “And more than a little infuriating.”

Dean chuckles, warm all over and buzzed from both beer and feelings. “Right back at ya, babe.” Dates, such as this one, is something Dean thought was reserved for the regular Joe lifestyle. You led an ordinary, lawful life with your white picket fence and barbecues, and you dated like this. He’d gone on a few dates. Sure he had. But only when he was trying to fool a woman that he was something he wasn’t. Seriously, who’d have guessed you could have this with a fucking mob serial killer?

They’re getting to know each other. Cas talked about growing up. All four of them were homeschooled, but Luce had made such a ruckus about wanting to go to an ordinary school, so he and Gabe (because Gabe did whatever Luce did) had gone to high school with regular people as well as being homeschooled. The older they got, the more their dad manipulated them, setting them up against each other. Family dinners had been awful at times, setting all of them at each other's throats. After one such dinner, they almost came to blows and Gabe disappeared the next day. Cas said Gabe was always the most sensitive to their dissent. Since he’d been gone the three remaining brothers would spend evenings drinking brandy, lying on the plush rug, heads together, in a star formation, looking at the ceiling and muse about where Gabe could be. Theories varied from India, hooking up with an Indian goddess, Scandinavia, rising to power like a god of mischief, to making cheesy porn in L.A. None of them would accept the idea of him being dead. It had all stopped after Luce went to jail and their dad had bent Micha completely to his will. Some of the stories Castiel tells feel so mundane somehow. Dean has trouble wrapping his head around the dangerous mobsters as normal kids being kids. Yet they were.

Cas has never had pets, but had wanted a guinea pig, or a bunny, or perhaps a hamster.

Dean rests his chin in his hand, supporting his head with his elbow on the table. “You’re partial to rodents then, huh? How about a rat?” he suggests with a little smirk.

Cas raises an eyebrow in amusement. “Sam told me not to encourage you to get another one, Dean.”

“Yeah… but if _you_ get one…” Dean insists with a shiteating grin. Somehow he’s made his mind up that Cas will remain in his life from now on, so that would be a good workaround.

The waitress stops by their table and asks if they wish to order dessert. They’re sitting at a round table for two, covered by a white linen tablecloth, with a candle placed in the middle. As dinner had progressed they’d edged their chairs increasingly close to each other, so now they’re sitting next to each other, knees touching, sending jolts of electricity through Dean every time either of them shifts. Cas looks at the waitress and asks if they still make the ice cream themselves and gets an affirmative. “Would you like to share an ice cream with me?” he asks Dean.

Normally Dean would have said ‘Fuck no!’ He ain’t sharing dessert! That’s for cheapskates. But there’s something in the bashful way Cas asks that has him saying yes.

The homemade French Vanilla ice cream is served with fresh raspberries and a twig of mint leaves on top. They get two spoons and it tastes really fucking good. The second time Cas lifts his spoon to _Dean's_ mouth instead of his own. It's so fucking cheesy Dean once again has to withhold laughter. What keeps Dean from laughing when he opens his mouth to accept the offering, is how Cas looks at him, breath held in suspense, tracking the movement of the spoon, watching Dean’s mouth.

That only holds for so long. The second spoon he gets fed is followed by a bubbly little giggle. “Sorry, Cas. This is so fucking cheesy.”

“Is this not how it’s done?” Cas asks and tilts his head. “My dates never last until dessert is served. I apologise if I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“Nah, it’s fine, babe. I just feel like we’re in Lady and the Tramp. I don’t think I’ve ever been Lady in this equation. ...I like it,” he admits with a smile that's supposed to be cocky but might turn out to be shy. Cas lips quirk upward in the corners. “How come your dates don't last until dessert?” Dean asks.

“People take offense at my personality. I'm not good at mindless flattery, and I may come across as too blunt.”

“I guess not everyone is willing to stick around when you tell them you're glad they lost their parents, huh?” Dean jokes.

Cas looks contrite. “Surprisingly few appreciate honesty,” he agrees.

“So how come you managed to lose your virginity? Cuz you're not a virgin, right? Fuck, but you kiss like a goddam pro.”

Cas chuckle is dark and filthy, filled with sweet promise. He holds out another spoonful of ice cream to Dean. When Dean leans forward to take it Cas pulls the spoon closer to himself. Dean humours him, chasing the spoon, heart fluttering helplessly. Cas’ face is almost touching his when he finally lets Dean reach the ice cream. Cas darts in and captures Dean's lips in a soft, chaste kiss when he pulls the spoon back. It's a complete contrast to his dark chuckle and Dean melts. Stupidly fucking romantic, that's what it is. Cas’ lips feel scorching in comparison to Dean's ice cream cold ones and Dean's eyes flutter shut. The kiss lingers, turns into another, and another one, before Cas leans back out. “Groupies and wannabes,” he says, a warm, happy twinkle in his eyes.

“Huh?” Dean asks dazedly.

“There are always groupies who will let you sleep with them for no other reason than that you're part of the mafia and a murderer. And ambitious men, part of the organisation, who hope to get ahead, will occasionally put out.”

It takes a beat for Dean to remember what he'd asked. “But then they would have put up with you all through a date too?”

Cas scoffs with a disdainful expression. “I would not waste time courting someone I do not find intriguing. I’ll take them up on their offers as is. However, if they’re foolish enough to think acts of iniquity will gain them favour with me, they’re wrong.”

Dean smirks wickedly. “Really now...? In that case…” He sticks his hand in his pocket and takes out Cas’ credit card, holding it up for show. “Then I guess I should give you this back?”

Cas’ eyes go round. “How? _When?_ ” he sputters and reaches for it.

Dean laughs, happy and carefree as he hands it over. “Magic fingers, babe. Magic fingers,” he says and waggles his eyebrows.

Cas looks down on the card in his hand. Slowly a smile spreads across his face. When his gaze comes back to meet Dean’s it’s full of warm admiration, making a lie of his previous statement since theft’s also an act of iniquity. Dean takes a sip of the Zacapa XO dark rum Cas had ordered them to go with the ice cream. It’s smooth and sweet and warms him from within, making him feel all fuzzy in the best of ways. ...Or maybe it’s really how stupidly, helplessly in love he is that does it.

* * *

They’re taking a stroll in the neighbourhood instead of heading straight back. They’re walking close enough that their shoulders brush ever so often. Both of them keep an eye out for possible threats. It makes Dean feel oddly safe to see Cas scan every passerby, window and car. Cas is back to wearing his aviators. “Hey, Cas, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“What's up with the aviators? I mean, wearing sunshades inside is one thing, but wearing them while working on your laptop. That's taking it to the next level.”

Cas huffs in self-deprecating amusement. “Growing up like I did, living my kind of life, requires mastery of the poker face. I don’t emote much with my body, but I’m fully aware of my failure to hide my emotions if people can see my eyes. I’ve been wearing sunglasses to hide myself for so long now, that I feel exposed without them.”

“Feeling naked, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I like you naked.”

Cas turns his head to look at Dean only to be met with a shiteating grin. For a moment he looks as if he’s about to say something suggestive, lips drawing up almost predatory, then… nothing, and Cas blushes hotly and bends his head to stare at his feet.

Dean laughs.

His laughter is cut off when Cas intertwines their fingers and side-eyes him with a shy smile. All Dean can do is smile back at him. The stupid butterflies it sets off has him tongue-tied.

Seriously, _what the hell?_

* * *

They’re almost back at the hotel when Cas stops and tugs his hand so Dean turns to face him with a questioning gaze. Cas steps closer, emanating nervous energy. By the small shifts in how he holds his head, Dean can see that he’s looking back and forth between Dean’s lips and eyes. Dean’s heart speeds up in anticipation. He licks his lips and leans in slowly, seeing Cas do the same. When they’re close enough to almost touch, breath whispering promises against each other’s faces, Cas―the fucker―asks, “Can I kiss you?”

Dean scowls and steps away, turning to start walking again. “Nope.”

“You’re infuriating! You still keep giving me double signals,” Cas complains, walking along.

“Like hell I do. You’re voicing questions I’ve already answered. If you don’t know the answer already, I’m not your guy.”

“Consent is important, Dean.”

Which is a really funny sentence to come from a murderer who shoots people for refusing to sell snacks, but okay. Dean just doubts people would consent to being made dead. “Agreed, and you had it. You should have known that by my _signals_. I like myself a go-getter, babe. I don’t―”

Dean’s promptly cut off, slammed up against the wall. Before his mental faculties had a chance to catch up Cas is on him, kissing him within an inch of his life. Cas grabs him under his thighs and yanks. Dean slides down a few inches along the wall. Cas lets go and boxes him in, looming above so Dean must tilt his head upward to keep kissing. When Cas breaks the kiss and looks down at Dean with a cocky, lopsided smirk, Dean’s chest is heaving, his knees are jelly, and he’s dizzy with it. “Yeah… that’s what I meant…” he tells Cas breathlessly. _Holy fucking shit!_

__

* * *

They stumble into the hotel room kissing. Dean throws a brief glance into the living room they’ve just entered to see Sam and Luce sitting on the couch together. He’s not really able to focus on proper hellos while kicking his shoes off, and trying to remove his jacket without removing his mouth from Cas’ neck, lips, cheek, throat, wherever he can reach.

Suddenly his brain comes to a screeching halt and his head snaps around in the direction of his brother. Cas is still tugging on Dean’s jacket but Dean could have sworn Lucifer was holding his arm around Sam when they entered. Now Sam’s looking at his lap, avoiding eye contact, (he never was completely comfortable with seeing Dean go at it hot and heavy anyway) while Luce has his arm draped over the backrest of the couch, head turned to smirk knowingly at Cas and Dean. It must have been a trick of the mind. Yeah, that’s it. They’re not sitting _that_ close. (But weren’t they just a second ago?) Dean must have seen the arm and somehow mixed things up in his brain. “We put your bags in that room,” Luce informs them and gestures with a thumb over his shoulder. “Have fun, kids.”

Dean flips him off and then goes back to attacking Cas with his mouth and hands. Cas walks him backwards into the assigned room and kicks the door shut behind them while Dean pushes the suit jacket off of him. He has to stop and push Cas away, holding him at arm's length to stare. “Goddamn. You know how fucking sexy you look like this?” Dean might be developing a waistcoat-slash-shoulder holster kink. _Who am I kidding? I already **have** one!_

“I’ll trust your judgement on the matter,” Cas counters with a growl, grabs him by the collar and pulls him right back in, mouthing along Dean’s neck, scraping with his teeth and soothing with his tongue.

Dean closes his eyes and makes a breathy, weak sound. “ _Fuck._ Cas. Lube. My bag.”

“We’ve got time,” Cas rumbles into the skin of his throat.

“Speak for yourself. I need one of us to get a good dicking _now_. You can take your time the next round. I ain’t going anywhere. You a top or bottom? I’ll do both.” Dean can’t decide if he wants Cas naked, or wants to be taken with Cas fully clothed as he is right now. Cas smells so goddamned good. He wants nothing more than to rub himself against Cas until all he can smell is Cas’ scent.

“I might not be averse to being on the receiving end in the future, but I’ve never bottomed before and you need to be taken down a peg,” Cas informs him, pulling Dean’s hoodie off of him.

“‘S that so?” Dean staves off a chuckle (he thrills at the change in Cas now he’s all bossy and assertive) and fumbles to get those holsters off. Hot as they are, guns in bed might not be the brightest idea.

“Mh,” Cas hums and walks him backwards while unbuckling Dean’s belt and opening his zipper.

“Cas. The lube,” Dean reminds him.

Cas shoves Dean just when his legs hit the bedside, making Dean topple over backwards. Then he grabs the waistline of both Dean’s jeans and underwear and pulls the pants off with a jerk that takes Dean halfway off the bed, laughing giddily. “Jeezus, Cas. Eager much?”

“Exceedingly,” Cas agrees darkly. “And it would seem our brothers are as eager for us to mate as I am,” he states, pulling jeans and underwear off of Dean, taking socks with him as he goes, and gestures with his head towards the bedside table.

As if Cas using the word ‘mate’ isn’t funny enough, Dean turns his head to see that his bottle of lube and a packet of condoms have already been unpacked and placed on the bedside table. Giggles bubble up from inside and pop like soap bubbles filled with carefree joy. He feels light and floating and a little nervous in a good way. Almost as if this was his first time, if he’d been an experienced lover his first time, that is. He crawls backwards up on the bed again and this time Cas gets onto his knees above him and crawls with him, stalking like a tiger. Dean’s dick is throbbing hard, leaking a ridiculous amount of precome. It’s a great relief to get the pants off, but now he yearns for friction which Cas ain’t giving him. Cas straddles his thighs and pulls the hem of Dean’s shirt upward. Dean sits up to help him get it over his head before falling back. Cas hovers above him with a heated leer. Dean smiles up at him, feeling vulnerable and exposed in his nudity. “You just gonna stare, hotshot?” he says and reaches up to start unbuttoning the waistcoat.

Cas bends his elbows so he can sink down enough to purr into Dean’s ear, brushing his lips against the shell of the ear while he husks, “Your beauty is exquisite. I'm going to pick you apart and put you back together piece by tiny piece until every part of you is baptised by my mouth and blessed by my hands.”

Dean shivers and whimpers. “Fuck, _Cas_ ,” he breathes and arches his back in search of friction. Cas promptly pushes his hip down with a hand and a dark chuckle.

“Patience.”

“Fuck patience. I need you inside of me. I _need you_.” Dean finally gets the waistcoat open, feeling deliriously eager to feel skin against skin.

Cas sits up and undoes the tie. When Dean reaches for him he captures Dean’s wrists and pushes them down on the mattress, his mouth seeking Dean’s for a deep kiss. His mouth is hot and sweet with the lingering tastes of coffee and rum they had at the restaurant. Dean could very well imagine lying here kissing him for hours, doing nothing but, if he could only _hold_ him, instead of being pinned down. Yet he doesn’t struggle. He allows Cas control, trusting him, buzzing with overwhelming feelings and anticipation.

“Stay still, or I’ll tie you up,” Cas orders and breaks the kiss to sit up and unbutton his shirt.

The nervous giggle escapes Dean again. He does what he’s told, marvelling at how far they’ve come since their first meeting yesterday. Then all he wanted was to get away from Cas who wanted him dead, and now he’s having overly romantic notions of spending the rest of his life with this man. A _murderer_. Bona fide killer. It’s insane how Dean can trust him so much after just one day, but he does. It turns his insides all gooey like hot, melted fudge, and his heart brittle, and vulnerable like a newly hatched baby bird.

Cas removes his shirt, exposing that gorgeous body and stretches of flushed skin Dean wants to get his hands on so badly it takes every ounce of self-control to keep from reaching up and touch.

Cas’ lips quirk upward in one corner, eyes deep, dark blue of a stormy ocean. “What does that smile mean? What are you thinking?” he asks.

“I was thinking it was just a day ago you wanted me dead in a ditch, and now I’d trust you with my life. It’s insane, babe. You’re under my skin. ‘T’s like you laid your hand on me and scorched your mark on my soul. ...Fuck, that sounded cheesy,” Dean answers and lets out a flustered chuckle.

“Don’t be absurd, Dean. Did you not…” Cas pauses to get up so he can divest himself of pants, underwear, and socks, before climbing on top of Dean again, this time laying down so they’re _fucking finally_ pressed together skin to heated skin. He supports himself on his elbows boxing Dean in and strokes his hair. He doesn’t protest when Dean runs his hands over his back. His eyes are dark blue sapphires filled with tenderness and warmth. “I never could have taken your life, Dean. When I first laid eyes on you, I was lost. Do you not feel it? The profound bond between us? I felt it the moment I got into the car and you were there.”

Dean bites his lip not to giggle. Cas says it with such conviction and Dean doesn’t want to ruin the jubilant feeling the words cause. It's too soon and too cheesy. He isn't supposed to feel like this yet. His heart shouldn’t holler ‘ _Yes yes yes!_ ’ But it does. To avoid saying something stupid he winds his fingers into Cas’ hair and pulls his face down for another one of those mindblowing kisses.

It doesn't take long until the kisses have rekindled the urgent fire in Dean’s veins. Skin is getting covered by a sheen of sweat, slicking the glide as they rut against each other, lips and hands seeking purchase on every inch of salty skin available. Cas once again pins Dean’s wrists to the bed and tongue-kisses his way down his throat, shoulder, pectoral, sucking a nub into his mouth and worries it lightly with tongue and teeth. Every cell of Dean vibrates with want. He needs to be closer. Needs _more_. He arches off the bed, rutting against Cas’ belly, eyes falling shut, making wordless noises, pleading, shivering, gasping. Cas travels lower. His mouth leaving a trail of heat and goosebumps. He kisses his way down to Dean’s waist, tickles circles with his tongue that has Dean squirming, nips along the hipbone, rubs his cheek along the length of Dean’s leaking cock.

The ghost of Cas’ hot breath along the back of his dick makes Dean open his eyes and look down, chest heaving, body thrumming. “ _Fuck!_ ” Cas’ face is flushed red, pupils blown wide, the small rings of the irises unnaturally blue, seemingly shining with light from within, gaze disturbingly intent. He flattens his tongue along Dean’s shaft and licks up a line of leaked precome all the way to the top. “Fuck, babe. I want to come with you inside of me. If you take that thing in your mouth I’ll _literally_ blow my shot at that in seconds,” he pants.

Cas chuckles. “That thing…” he mumbles in amusement to himself. Then he sits up and flips Dean over, grabbing him by the hips to pull his ass up. “As you will, you impatient cretin.”

Cas still takes too long (in Dean’s mind) prepping him with fingers and tongue. Dean’s a mess before Cas has even entered him. He still somehow manages to keep from coming until Cas is seated deep within him, draped over his back, mounting him like a frigging animal, one arm hugging his chest, the other his stomach, and teeth digging into his shoulder hard enough to leave a bruising mark.

Cas fucks him through it, almost getting bucked off for his effort, and follows him over the edge 30 seconds later.

They lie panting, sweat-soaked and sated, Cas still draped as a heavenly weight over Dean’s back. After a moment Dean turns his head so he can smile at Cas, face close enough to be blurred by proximity. “Hey…” he coos sweetly.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas answers with his rough voice that does things to Dean. His lips quirk upward in a content smile. “Is it too early to say I love you?”

The silly butterflies in Dean’s belly fire off happy, celebratory fireworks, turning his insides to gooey mush. He giggles. “Yeah… yeah, it is, babe.”

Cas frowns, perturbed. “Oh. Then will you be so kind as to inform me when it’s appropriate to do so?”

Dean couldn’t stop the carefree, giddy laughter if he tried. A look at Cas’ blurry face reveals that for once he’s not offended. He’s grinning one of his adorable gummy grins, crinkling the skin around his eyes, and his eyes are filled with nothing but affection.

Cas rolls off of Dean and Dean instantly misses the closeness. “Hey, where are you going?”

“You asseverated that once I’d brought you to climax during intercourse, I would be allowed to take my time exploring you. That’s what I’m going to do.”

“Jeezus, Cas. If y― _Whoop!_ ”

That’s what happens. The second round drags out for an eternity until Dean is begging loudly or spitting profanities, feeling like a piece of oversensitized jelly all over. This time he lies on his back when Cas finally takes him again. It’s slow and sensual, with a lot of traded kisses and never breaking eye contact. Cas gaze is a frightening thing, so deep and full of emotion Dean’s nothing but hypnotized, feeling vulnerable and laid bare, as if Cas can see his soul and every secret he hides within.

The third round Cas finally allows Dean to take the lead and explore. It doesn’t last as long, since both of them are pretty worn out. Cas comes with a hitched breath and a keening moan right into Dean’s mouth. Dean wishes he could record that sound and listen to it on repeat forever.

Afterwards they lie spent, Dean’s head resting on Cas’ chest.

Dean chuckles tiredly with his eyes closed. “Shit. We were kinda loud. Poor Sam and Luce.”

Cas’ responding chuckle is a low rumble against Dean’s ear. “They deserve it for what they did to us last night.”

“What?” Dean looks up, not understanding.

Cas just smiles and captures his lips in a distracting kiss. It’s simply impossible to think about brothers with Cas kissing him...

* * *

“I gotta go take a leak. Unless you’re into watersports, that is,” Dean mumbles drowsily. He doesn’t want to get up but his bladder isn’t too happy about him lying here, cheek pressed against Cas’ chest, with Cas’ hand trailing slowly up and down his spine, coaxing forth new shivers despite depleted energy.

“Mmmh. Don’t take too long or I might need to break down the door and give you a da capo of our previous activities,” Cas purrs contentedly with his eyes closed.

“Tempting,” Dean chuckles and struggles out of Cas’ hold. He gets up and goes to his bag, nabs a pair of sweats and puts them on, then leaves the bedroom. He’s halfway through the living room space when the other door opens and Sam comes sneaking out, closing the door as quietly as he can. He’s wearing boxers and Lucifer’s white shirt unbuttoned. He hasn’t noticed Dean. “Dude. Why are you wearing Lucifer’s shirt?”

Sam makes an undignified startled noise and jumps at Dean’s voice. He spins around and stares at Dean with eyes wide as a deer in the headlight of an oncoming truck. “Uh… I just… grabbed the closest thing I could find?” he answers haltingly and looks at Dean as if it’s a fucking quiz and he wonders if he got the answer right. _Like hell he did._

“Sam, we’ve talked about this. You gotta think about the signals you put out. You wear his clothes and that fucking douchenozzle will think it’s okay to start humping your leg like a possessive horndog. And I’ll tell ya, it won’t go over well with Cas if I have to shiv his big bro.”

Sam looks at the floor and rubs his neck self-consciously. “Uhm. Yeah… he’s asleep now anyway, so…” It almost looks like he’s blushing in shame in the dim light coming from the windows. _Good_. He fucking should.

“Whatever, man. Just fucking _think_ , okay?” Dean says and taps his temple with a finger.

Sam clears his throat then straightens up determinedly like a good soldier. “I will. Yes. Um. I’m gonna.”

“Good.” Dean’s satisfied with that and hurries towards the toilet. _Little brothers, man. You need to keep them on a leash. They don’t know up from down. Who knows what would happen if I left Sammy alone with Luce for too long?_ That’s the last thought he pays Sam and Luce for the night. After all, he’s got someone warm, sexy, and tantalizing waiting for him in bed…

* * *


	16. DOMESTIC LIVING

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: NSFW image embedded. <3 (Cas and Dean making love on a bed of rose petals.)

* * *

**DOMESTIC LIVING**

* * *

Living with the Angelus brothers goes pretty well, but it’s not without friction.

The first thing Dean learns is that Cas, in all his splendor, isn't human before his two first cups of coffee. Left to his own devices he doesn't stir before 11 A.M. Worse, he clings and growls when Dean tries to leave the bed.

Dean, on the other hand, rises early. When you're homeless you want to leave your sleeping place before you get run off, like you're likely to be when the world awakens. Then he's worked construction a lot, requiring that you get up early.

He's loathe to admit it, but if sex wasn't part of the equation, Luce and he would have been better roommates. Luce rises early too and is alert and social from the get-go. In the mornings Luce looks like an ordinary, decent human being. Dressed in some old and worn T-shirt with equally worn jeans to match and hair a sleepy mess, Luce looks like someone you can hang out with. Then after breakfast, Luce will shower and suit up, and goes back to looking like the asshole he really is.

Lucifer is a good-natured pest. He’ll mock, tease, and rib all three of them―Cas in particular. It’s hilarious. ...Until Dean remembers he hates the guy. Gotta hand it to him, though. As long as you stay away from certain topics (Michael, prison, Gabe.) he’ll be accepting of jokes on his behalf too.

Cas, on the other hand, often puts his foot in his mouth. So often, in fact, that Dean suggests he mount a shoe rack in there for convenience. Cas mopes about it for a full hour.

If Cas and Sam are left alone they’ll end up cooped together in front of their laptops, Cas teaching Sam handy (probably illegal) tricks. It’s one of those things that make Dean fall even more deeply in love with Cas.

Cas loses his inhibitions in bed, but can still be a blushing fool and nervous romantic outside of it. Like when he comes home with that stupid, big bouquet of thorn-free roses. Dean makes a big show of complaining about how useless it is to give flowers that will die within a day, and what is he? Some fainting maid who’ll swoon for fucking flowers? Yet Dean refuses to put the roses in a vase. He ends up sitting in a corner of the couch with the roses embraced in his lap and his nose buried in the fragrant petals. He blames the flowers being wasted if he doesn’t. Cas sees through it, if his secret smiles when looking at Dean are to be believed. Sam has a goddamn hoot about it. Whatever. He’s not the one who ends up making love on a bed of rose petals that night.

Sometimes it gets glaringly obvious that the Angelus brothers aren’t your standard fare people. It’s when Dean and Luce butt heads, and Cas’ reaction to it, that puts a spotlight on this. Like when they _almost_ have a knife fight.

Lucifer has his bright sides. Like cooking. Sam and Dean came home one day to find Lucifer cooking while crooning Hamilton songs and Cas sitting at the table with earbuds in. Cas isn’t allowed near the kitchen. Apparently, he has the idea that food gets finished faster if you cook it at the highest temperature and wander off. If you let him in the kitchen while you cook the temperature of the stove or oven will ‘mysteriously’ rise. (Dean thinks Cas is doing it as a prank.) But Luce cooks well. And he makes a killer steak. That’s right. He _isn’t_ a vegetarian. He just doesn’t eat meat if he can avoid it unless he can get it confirmed that the animals have had a good life or some shit like that. Dean cooks too and it’s become something of an informal competition between them who can create the better meal.

It’s while Dean cooks dinner the knife fight almost happens. Lucifer comes up from behind, leans against Dean’s back, grabs him by the hips to move him to the side, and steals a piece of carrot from the chopping block. Nothing about that is okay. Not the food theft nor the dominant grabbing and leaning. Dean spins around slashing with the kitchen knife, sinking down to a fighting stance in one move. Luce jumps away, sucks in his stomach and curves his back just enough to avoid getting his belly slashed, then he too sinks down in a fighting stance, procuring a butterfly knife out of a pocket.

Adrenaline surges and heart rate spikes. Lucifer’s face is cold and hard. Frightening. But so is Dean’s, if he’s to believe those who’ve seen his focused fighting face. Luce lunges, testing Dean’s reflexes. Dean dodges and counterstrikes. Luce evades the attack and then they’re back to their positions again after the first test of waters.

Cas comes walking into the kitchen and stops in the doorway. “Oh, dear. This is unfortunate,” he says with a troubled frown. Though he doesn’t _do_ anything to stop it. Only stands there looking troubled.

“Dean, when’s dinn―” Sam appears in the doorway and breaks off, sucking in a horrified breath. “Jesus Christ! _What are you **doing**?_ ”

“Stay out of it, Sammy,” Dean orders without removing his focus from Luce.

“It is common that when two alphas join their packs together to form one, they need to fight it out to establish who is the leader. Do not fret too much, Sam. They won’t be aiming to give each other anything but superficial wounds. It’s a simple test of strength,” Cas explains to Sam.

“Dude, _what the hell?_ ” Sam exclaims. “Cas, are you _insane_??”

Before either Dean or Luce has the chance to lunge at each other again Sam’s stepped in between them, holding his arms outstretched to both of them, palms up in a stopping motion. “Damnit, _stop_!” he orders with a voice breaking at the high note.

Both Luce and Dean lower their knives and straighten up, jaw muscles ticking. “You touch me like that again, you’re dead, you hear?!” Dean threatens.

Luce smirks, steals another piece of carrot from the chopping block and pops it in his mouth, keeping his gaze locked with Dean’s as he makes his way to the doorway. He gives Dean a wink and shoulders past Cas out of the room. He’s damned lucky Sam keeps himself between them or Dean would have made another lunge. (Which might have been the point of Lucifer’s provocation.)

“See, Sam? No harm done,” Cas states as if this was the natural order of things. Dean rolls his eyes and turns back to the chopping block. This is how the Angelus differ from normal people that _aren’t_ insane. What’s a little knife fight before dinner, right? It makes Dean wonder what else went on in the Angelus household, growing up. Between playing in the mud, prank wars, and general horseplay. The two of them did kill at the age of 13 as a rite of passage after all.

Maybe it says something about Dean that Sam’s the only one of the four of them who’s tense at dinner that night. Halfway through dinner he puts down his utensils and interrupts the conversation. “Are you all going to pretend nothing happened earlier?”

“Nothing happened worth discussing, Sammy,” Lucifer answers with half a shrug. “I asked Dean where his boundaries lie, and he answered. That’s all.”

And it makes sense to Dean. As much sense as Cas’ hand on his thigh while they eat and Sam’s laughter at Cas’ jokes (At least, Dean thinks they are jokes?) and excited attention to his discussions with Luce. Hell, if you look at it crassly, Dean had told Cas to test boundaries exactly like that, when he told Cas no before they kissed. Maybe this is why he adapted so well every time he’s been in jail, and Sam hadn’t?

Either way, Luce never touches him like that again. He’ll sometimes come to lean against the counter while Dean cooks. Dean will silently pick out a piece of chopped vegetable and shove it his way. Luce will pop it in his mouth and wander off. They’ve got an understanding.

Sam’s happier than Dean’s ever seen him, getting along with everyone in the household. If you don’t count all the “Get a room!”, “Oh, God! Not _again_!”, “Dammit, you two! Do you _have_ to do that where we can see?” comments Dean and Cas draw from him since they have trouble keeping their hands off of each other. Luce doesn’t mind it. He’ll watch and leer like the creepy fuck he is. But Dean doesn’t mind being watched. Cas, however, will seek out privacy if things go PG-rated in front of their brothers, even if he does seem to consider it a sport to make Dean wail hard enough for their brothers to hear, while they’re out of sight.

The dynamics between the four of them shift like the tide over the course of the day. Dean hasn’t officially said yes to become Lucifer’s apprentice, but it doesn’t stop Luce from teaching or Dean from acting like a respectful student when he does. Much like Sam and Cas develop a secondary teacher-student relationship, albeit of a much more scholarly nature than Dean and Luce. Because of this, their dynamic changes with the activities, and yet… it works. Despite how they all met and the differences between them, it works.

Cas calculates something from the papers in the envelopes Dean stole. The four of them start preparing for the heist. They’ll be hitting a vault at HQ. Cas finally cracks the code or pattern he was after. They start preparing. It’s made easier since Luce and Cas can still waltz in and out of HQ as they find fit. Luce and Sam leave town for two days to create a diversion, trying to draw Michael’s attention away. Dean wants to come but for his own safety, they deem it safest if he remains here until the actual heist. It’s not so bad. Sam keeps him posted. And alone time with Cas is welcome.

Two weeks after Dean threw himself into Lucifer’s car, they’re finally good to go…

* * *


	17. THE HEIST

* * *

**THE HEIST**

* * *

“Voices in my head, these aaare, the voices in my head. Voices in my head, these aaare, the vooices in my―”

“ _Dammit, Dean! Will you_ stop _singing?_ ”

“ _You don’t appreciate Denis Leary, Sammy? Why, I’m disappointed._ ”

“ _Not when Dean’s singing it, Luce._ ”

“ _If you’d all keep your palaver down to a minimum, I’d be grateful._ ”

“Dude, I’m sorry. It feels fucking weird to have y’all yapping away straight into my ear,” Dean says and adjusts the earbud. He feels like secret service with the rest of the team communicating straight into his ear.

“ _It’s for a purpose, Dean_ ,” Sam says in such a prissy tone of voice Dean can _hear_ the bitchface.

Dean rolls his eyes. Then he gasps dramatically. “It _is_? Gee, Sammy, I _never_ would have figured,” he mocks.

Luce chuckles. “ _The way you two bicker I’m surprised you’ve managed to pull off the things you’ve done in the past._ ”

“Shut up, Luce, nobody asked you,” Dean bites back.

“ _We don’t bicker during a heist, Sir. It’s pre-strike jitters that makes us do it. Dean will annoy me on purpose to distract me from being nervous,_ ” Sam explains, voice all sweet and deferential. It makes Dean want to stab Lucifer with a pencil in the neck. His hackles go up every time Sam calls Luce ‘Sir’, which he does with alarming frequency.

“Anything to keep you from pissing your pants, Sammy boy,” Dean ribs with a shiteating grin.

“ _Fuck you, Dean._ ”

Dean and Luce both snigger. Cas is the only one not talking much at the moment. On the other hand, he’s hard at work, planting a virus straight into the Garrison’s Intranet servers, right in the heart of the HQ building. Sam’s in a van in the underground garage, parked strategically for the second part of the heist when Cas will let him in from an underground door. Luce is somewhere in the building too. Dean’s outside waiting for his cue and he is fucking nervous. They’re playing with high stakes right now. His heart rate is high, nerves creating a static buzz. He’s dressed in a suit, same as the Angelus, envying Sam his regular get-up. Underneath his clothes, he’s got a bulletproof vest. It’s hot, constricting, and cumbersome, but Dean’s still glad to wear it, knowing what they’re up against. He’s been fitted with holsters, currently carrying six guns on his person. Two in his belt at the back, two strapped to his ankles, and two under his arms. Hopefully, he won’t have to use a single one. He’s also wearing a wig, a fake beard, and glasses, trying to look as little as possible as he did when he met Micha. Hopefully, Micha or his men aren’t here today. But if they are, the disguise will give Dean a slight chance of not being recognised. Though it feels like the beard is about to come loose so Dean keeps pressing on it to keep it in place.

“ _Oh, for fuck sake. The backup car has gotten a parking ticket,_ ” Luce informs them in a faintly disgusted tone of voice.

“ _You’re outside?_ ” Sam asks in surprise.

“No it hasn’t,” Dean counters. “I put a fake parking ticket on to keep us from getting a real one.”

“ _Clever,_ ” Luce purrs. “ _No, Sammy. But this building does have windows, you know?_ ” he then snarks.

“ _It’s done,_ ” Cas informs them. The virus, both this one designed for the Intranet, and the one Cas planted in the servers meant for ordinary internet communications are designed to activate in 24 hours when they’re (hopefully) long gone. It will lay waste to _everything_ the Garrison has stored digitally. If some dumbass has stored his vacation photos on his work computer it will be gone along with every important email, contract, and whatever, that big companies might have computerized.

There’s another, more insidious part of the digital attack that Luce and Cas had taken care of before they came here and met the Winchesters. In an underground bunker in Denver the Garrison keeps their backup of backup data. They only get updated quarterly and are disconnected from any network as soon as the backup is done. That way the Garrison can lose only three months worth of data. Except Cas went there in person. He didn’t remove the stored data, he just changed it. According to the files in that archive the employees earn higher salaries with better benefits (unless they’re mafioso), the environmental guidelines are strict, debts have much lower interest rates, flaws were added that might get the IRS or other departments to want to inspect and consequently uncover illegal activities, and a whole bunch of other shenanigans that will drive both the illegal and legal parts of the company to the ground. It will be hard to prove this information has been tampered with in a court of law if all the original data is gone. In theory, the digital attack would make enough damage to rock the foundation of the Garrison. But since their main goal is to destroy the illegal organization first and foremost, they need to hit the vault at HQ too.

The goal isn’t to eradicate the illegal activities. It’s to set every faction up against each other, making the mafia split and form new individual groups that will do power-grabs and war against each other. So much of the Angelus control is based on the corporation front. Losing the storage of money as well as blacking out digital records will make Michael’s overseeing job all but impossible. The organization has been shaking since ‘God’ died, everyone suddenly intent on pushing their own agenda. The big four have taken too long to decide on a new God. This will turn the tremors into an earthquake.

“Am I up?” Dean asks.

“ _Hold it, Maverick. Cas and I need to get into position first._ ”

“Yes, Sir.” Dean might hate when Sam calls Luce ‘Sir’, but that's different. Luce has the lead on this and Dean can defer to him with a title when he gives commands. Sam, on the other hand, calls him Sir in other circumstances and all but preens when Luce coos ‘good boy’ at him. It has to be some kind of daddy issue, right? It _has_ to. It _can't_ be anything else, because the only other reason Dean can think of is a kink thing and just, _NOPE!_ No way. Dean ain't having it. 

Dean waits.

“ _I’ve let Sam in,_ Cas informs them. “ _We’ll be in position in a few minutes._ ”

Dean waits. He catches some people talking in the background but it’s very faint. Only the voice of the person wearing the earbud will come through clearly. 

“ _Shit…_ ” Sam mutters silently.

“Problem?”  
“ _Problem?_ ” Dean and Luce asks in unison.

“ _No, no. Sorry. We’ve reached the vault door now and Cas is doing the preparations. It’s just that, um, seeing the vault door… I feel like I’m in Ocean’s Eleven or something._ ”

“ _We’re only four, Sam, not eleven,_ ” Cas points out.

Dean sniggers at his matter-of-fact voice. Dean can’t even tell if he’s joking or not.

“ _Yeah, I know… it’s just too easy for such a big job, you know? Like, something’s bound to go wrong, right?_ ”

“ _Several somethings already have, Sammy,_ ” Luce reminds him. “ _We hadn’t expected that random fire inspection that discovered what we did to the sprinkler system. That’s why Dean will have to go in and sabotage it manually, remember?_ ”

“ _I know. I_ know _. But we’re robbing the frigging mob. Where are the guards?_ ”

Which is a good point. Except Cas had already taken out two earlier, and Sam had gotten things explained to him same as Dean. Hell, Sam had been away with Luce to create a diversion by appearing to botch a hit on the old location of the stuff currently in this vault. The things they were after had been moved months ago and _supposedly_ only the big four knew that. It wasn’t common knowledge like the location Luce and Sam pretended to hit. Instead, the big four had chosen to hide the new location by stealth, just like the stuff Dean had stolen from the local Garrison office. Nobody was supposed to know the items were there and nobody was supposed to know about the vault in the basement of HQ. Months ago it had been built, some ‘health hazard’ had been found during the build and the area had been walled up. The people who’d built the vault had been poisoned to further legitimise the claim of health hazard, and are conveniently dead. The walled up part of the basement has a hidden entrance.

Luce and Cas refuse to tell how they found out. And really, who cares?

“ _Is this the jitters you were talking about earlier?_ ” Luce asks.

“ _Maybe? Sorry._ ”

“ _Stay focused._ ”

“ _Yes, Sir._ ”

Dean waits.

And waits.

He presses at the fake beard to make sure it doesn’t come off.

It’s only minutes, but it feels like an eternity before Cas says, “ _We’re ready._ ” 

“ _Dean, you’re up. Go._ ” Luce commands.

“On my way.”

Dean makes his way across the street and up the stairs where he'd first laid eyes on Cas. He enters the spinning doors into the huge entrance hall of marble. He counts the line of metal detectors and takes aim for the third from the left, perpetually disabled for the benefit of the mobsters. Once he's in he heads for the reception desk. The woman behind the desk looks up from her screen and strokes a loose lock of hair out of her face with a long pearly nail. Everything about her is immaculate except that lock of hair. “Good afternoon, Sir. How can I be of service?”

He smiles politely at her. “Jake Gray. Here to see Mr. Baker,” he informs her. 

She click-clickety-clicks on her keyboard with her long manicured nails, then looks at the screen with a troubled frown. “I'm sorry, Mr. Gray, I can't find you in the system.”

“ _Oh dear._ ” Cas sounds contrite.

“ _For the love of―! Cas! You forgot?_ ” Luce scolds. With all the months of planning that had gone into this, one would think a tiny detail like this wouldn’t slip past Cas’ computer expertise. Especially since he had legal access to this system. But like Sam said, something’s bound to go wrong. 

“ _My apologies._ ” 

“ _Dean. Tell her you're late,_ ” Lucifer orders. 

Dean gives the woman behind the desk the troubled look of someone who’s annoyed but knows they’ve done something wrong that doesn’t allow them to be annoyed. “Are you sure? I was held up in traffic for almost 30 minutes. I'm late, but he's expecting me.”

She scrolls down the page and shakes her head. “I'm sorry, Sir. I can't―“ She looks down on something Dean can't see behind the counter and holds up a finger. “Hold on, Mr. Gray. We'll solve this. One moment, please.” Then she picks up a headset, puts it on and clicks on the phone out of Dean’s view. “Sheila Manning, front desk. How may I help you?”

Dean can hear the other end of the conversation in his earbud. 

“ _Hi, Sheila, it's Gavin Baker from the legal department. I'm expecting a visitor who hasn't shown up yet. When I complained to my secretary it turns out that she forgot to log the meeting into the system. You wouldn't happen to know if he showed up, do you?_ ” 

Sheila chuckles, posture relaxing. “Would that happen to be a Mr. Jake Gray, Sir?” She throws Dean a look of conspiratorial amusement. 

“ _It is. So he did show up then? Damn. This isn't good. I'll have to work hard to placate him. Getting this meeting wasn't easy,_ ” Lucifer says, sounding worried.

“Actually, Sir, he's right here.”

“ _He is? Fantastic._ ” 

“He was held up in traffic. I'll give him a badge and send him right up.”

“ _Wonderful, Sheila. Thank you._ ” 

“No problem, Sir.” Sheila smiles at the voice on the phone. She appears to be one of those people who enjoy their work. Dean refuses to think about that. Apart from dad getting murdered, most of the problems the Winchesters have had with the Garrison has been due to their legal dealings. So what if not everybody working for them are total douchebags? The company still had to burn along with the filth that runs it. She hangs up, removes her headset and directs her smile at Dean. “A lucky coincidence, Mr. Gray. That was Mr. Baker. It appears we’ve had a computer malfunction,” she says and taps her screen apologetically. Dean has to refrain from laughing at the blatant lie. It makes sense not to mention sloppy secretaries. Nobody at the Garrison can be held accountable or blamed. “Mr. Baker’s expecting you, as you said. Would you be so kind to hand me your ID so I can create a visitor’s badge for you?”

“Sure. Thank you, Mrs. Manning,” Dean answers and hands over the fake ID Cas has made for him for this purpose. It’s nothing like the full identities he made for Smith and Wesson, but it’ll hold up for simple inspections.

“It’s miss. And call me Sheila. Be right back.” She leaves to go to a room behind the desk and Dean leans against the counter and scans the entré hall. He sees no one he’d find suspicious. The security guards look like your regular security guards.

Gavin Baker is a persona Luce had ‘hired’ to work here three months ago. Supposedly Baker travels a lot and is rarely here, but he’s been here often enough for Luce to establish himself as a real person in the company. It’s not the first time he’s used the identity either. For the millionth time, Dean thinks about how great it is to have someone with power on the inside.

Sheila comes back and hands him his ID as well as a visitor’s badge with the photo from the ID along with his name printed on it. “Here you go, Mr. Gray. Keep this visible at all times and hand this back to us here in the reception when you leave. Baker’s on the twelfth floor. Take one of the elevators to the left. Have a nice day.”

“Thank you, Sheila. You too.”

Dean clips the badge onto his chest like he sees other wearing it and heads to the assigned elevator. He steps inside and pushes the 8th floor like Luce had instructed him to, then stands in the back waiting, holding his briefcase in front of himself.

A couple of other people enter, pushing different floor buttons, then they’re on their way. Once again it feels like his beard is coming loose. He raises a hand and presses it above his lip, trying to disguise it as scratching, should someone look. Really, the beard looks authentic enough. But it won’t if it falls off.

At the 6th floor a man gets into the elevator and suddenly Dean’s heart is racing. It’s Dick Roman, one of the angels who’d been guarding Micha at the airport. Disinterestedly Roman scans the people in the elevator, throws a glance at the floor buttons before turning around to face the doors like everybody else.

Dean feels the back of his neck prickle with sweat. His palms start to sweat too, the grip on the briefcase getting slick. _He didn’t recognize me, did he? Fuck._

Dean keeps his eyes on the monitor showing the floor. 7th floor. The doors slide open. One person leaves but Roman remains standing where he is.

_Fuck. Either we get off on the same floor or I’ll have to pass him to get off. Please don’t recognise me, pleeease._

8th floor. The doors slide open. Roman remains where he is. Dean has no choice but to squeeze past him. Roman turns his head to meet Dean’s gaze with a bored one of his own, then Dean’s out of the elevator, turning right in the corridor. He stops and waits out of sight, breath held in suspense until he hears the doors close again. Then he looks. No Roman in sight. He lets out a shaky breath. “Guys, I just met Dick Roman in the elevator. I don’t think he recognized me.”

“ _Who’s Dick Roman?_ ” Sam asks.

“ _One of the Angels assigned to Micha,_ ” Cas explains.

“ _So Micha’s here?_ ” Sam probes worriedly.

“ _Not necessarily,_ ” Luce chips in calmly. Dude has ice in his veins. “ _Dean, go right. Turn up the second corridor and cross over to the other side of the building. Once you’re there, turn left and enter the maintenance elevator. Use the key I gave you. Turn it and push the -1 button._ ”

Lucifer’s calm instructions soothe Dean’s nerves minutely. Freaking out will help exactly no one. He takes a deep fortifying breath, presses at his fake beard once, and starts walking. “On the move.” He reminds himself that most people in this building _aren’t_ mafia. Most are ordinary, law-abiding civilians. (The Angelus calls them ‘collaterals’, which really hits home how fucked up their view of human life is, but okay.) Hell, many of the people here aren’t even working here. They’re business people from other companies. He nods politely at people he passes that make eye contact, wondering how many of them―if any―are armed. Walking the corridors feels like it’s taking forever with the fright of seeing Roman tickling his nerves, but soon enough he finds the maintenance elevator and steps inside. It’s one of those you have to turn a key in to be able to go anywhere. This one is used the least and that’s why Luce chose it. Dean inserts the key, turns it, and pushes the button. This elevator is bigger and slower than the other one, made to transport big and heavy cargo. It’s noisy and rattles quite a bit but Dean starts feeling safer the further he gets from where he saw Roman. Finally, he reaches the right floor and the doors open.

Luce stands outside waiting, face serious and focused. “You cool?” he asks.

“I’m cool.”

“Good. Come with me.” Luce gives him a friendly slap on the shoulder and turns to lead the way through the corridor. This is a restricted floor meant for supplies, storage and whatnot. The floors lack the nice carpets, the lighting is sharp and flickers in some places. Most importantly, it’s empty of people. There’s still the risk of a janitor, security guard, or someone like that showing up, but the risk is far less.

Luce turns his head to look at him. “You sure you can do this without a map or a blueprint?”

“Yes. I’ve studied the blueprints until my eyes bleed.”

“And you’ll find your way to the room afterwards?”

“Yep.”

“And you’ll know what to do with the sprinkler system?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes, _daaad_. Dude, chill. The only thing I’m worried about is stir crazy mobsters with guns and intent to kill me, alright?”

Luce smirks. “Fair enough. But should you fail to disable the system, inform us. We brought explosives, just in case.”

“You did?” 

Lucifer laughs at how Dean’s eyes light up. “Yes, probie. But I’d prefer if we didn’t have to use it. It might cause unnecessary harm to collaterals.”

“Right. Right.”

“So you like to blow shit up, hmm? Is that why you wanted to work for NASA?”

“Dude. What’s NASA got to do with blowing shit up?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Luce starts counting off his fingers. “Apollo 1, Apollo 13, Challenger, Columbia―”

Dean grins and shoves him playfully. “Oh, shaddap. If I’d been working there they wouldn’t have blown up in the first place.”

Luce sniggers and looks at him with that weird affection that no longer bothers Dean quite as much. They’re a team after all. And technically Luce is Dean’s kinda sorta brother-in-law, so they’re family, right? As long as Luce keeps his filthy paws off Sam.

“ _Would you two stop yapping like 5-year-olds playing tea party, and start focusing,_ ” Cas snipes.

“Stow your jealousy, little brother. A little smalltalk shouldn’t break your concentration. Ah. Here we are.” Luce stops by a ladder up to the ceiling. “I’ll move the ladder to the room once you’re up.”

Dean opens his suitcase and takes out his tool belt and headlamp. He puts them on and hands the suitcase to Luce.

“ _I’m not jealous, Lucifer,_ ” Cas refutes.

“Oh, really? That’s good.” Luce takes up his phone and quickly taps something out before showing the screen to Dean. ‘`Want to make your boyfriend jealous? Play along. We’ll pretend I kissed you.`’ Dean grins his agreement. There’s something very grounding about Luce being his usual jerk-self even during these circumstances. And Dean kinda wants to know if Cas would actually get jealous of Luce. If he’d believe the two of them would do something. Out loud, Luce purrs “Then you won’t mind me doing this…” He waggles his eyebrows at Dean and gives him a shove against the wall without following, remaining several feet away.

Dean goes with it. He makes a startled noise, sucks in a breath and presses the back of his hand against his lips and tongue, and fake kisses it to get the right noises, adding a faintly whimpered ‘Mmh’.”

“ _Luci… what are you doing?_ ” Cas’ voice sounds so suspicious Dean has trouble to keep from laughing. Luce too for that matter. He’s grinning like a loon, shoulders jumping with withheld mirth.

Dean keeps it up a little while longer before he breaks it off, breathing roughly and muttering “Fuck me…” dazedly.

“There you go. A good luck kiss for the road,” Luce says, voice not conveying how close he is to laughing out loud. “Now up you go.”

“ _WHAT?_ ”  
“ _WHAT?_ ”

Sam and Cas speak in unison and Dean almost loses it. He holds out his fist to Luce for a fistbump before he shimmies up the ladder to the maintenance hatch, opens it and crawls inside.

“ _Luce, you didn’t actually kiss my brother, did you? ...Did you?_ ” Sam probes, sounding vaguely distressed about it.

“ _I certainly hope you didn’t, or we’re going to have… words,_ ” Cas chimes in with a tight, dangerous voice that implies that those words might be had with knives or possibly guns doing the talking.

Dean closes the hatch after himself and lights his headlamp. “Cas, _are_ you jealous?” he asks grinning.

“ _I’m not inclined to have positive emotions concerning other individuals than I, being allowed to taste the fruit of intimacy with you. Family or otherwise,_ ” Cas admits grudgingly.

Lucifer finally loses it and laughs. Dean too has to pause to have a giggle fit. “Cas, baby. Chill. Luce didn’t kiss me. He knows very well that unless it’s a life or death situation, I’d stab him in the eye with a spork for trying.”

“ _I find the sense of humour you two share, recurrently repugnant,_ ” Cas counters haughtily.

“ _Yeah, Dean. That’s not funny,_ ” Sam agrees prissily, making Dean snigger.

“ _Why I disagree, Sammy. I find your brother’s humour quite excellent,_ ” Luce coos.

“ _With all due respect,_ fuck you. _Sir,_ ” Sam sasses.

Dean presses his hand against his mouth to keep from guffawing, affection for his brother blossoming in his chest. He can hear Lucifer’s warm chuckle. Luce rarely takes offense at people taking offense when he’s being a little shit. Then he starts crawling.

* * *

Dean’s in a crawl shaft meant for maintenance of both the sprinkler system, vents, and other piping. His job is to sabotage the sprinkler system but only for the vault and the surrounding corridors. After all, they’re going to start an actual fire in the vault. They want what’s inside of it to burn, not the whole building. Just because the Angelus call ordinary civilians ‘collaterals’ doesn’t mean they want to make truth of that and have innocents die as collateral damage. 

He’s keeping quiet as good as he can. He’s not sure how well sound travels through the vent shafts he passes and the rest of his team are in deep concentration, feeding him a steady stream of words into his ear, most of them making no sense to Dean except he knows it has to do with the cryptos Dean stole.

“ _December 14th, 18:45._ ”

“ _Done._ ”  
“ _Done._ ”

It’s been going on like this for a little while. Luce dictates by naming a name and a time, or a date and a time, there’s a pause while Sam and Cas punch in the corresponding codes, then confirm that they’re done. Apparently, there are two code/card readers on each side of the vault door and both need to be manned at the same time. Dean thinks it’s stupid, but whatever.

There’s a beeping sound that even Dean can hear. In suspense he pauses the welding he’s doing. It’s nerve-wracking only being able to hear what goes on. There’s bound to be safety measures in place if they do something wrong. What exactly those might be, Luce hadn’t bothered to tell them, and Cas swore he didn’t know.

“ _Good work. Insert the USB sticks._ ”

“ _Done._ ”  
“ _Done._ ”

“ _Drag the key cards through the readers again._ ”

“ _Done._ ”  
“ _Done._ ”

“ _Processing…_

The beeping stops.

“ _I’m turning the key. Here goes nothing…_ ”

Dean holds his breath as everything goes silent for 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9… 10 seconds. Then…

“ _WOOHOO! IT WORKED!_ ” Lucifer hoots and Sam cheers.

“ _Luci, why are you sounding surprised about that?_ ” Cas asks.

“ _Wait. You weren’t sure it would work?_ ” Sam asks.

“ _I am **now**_ ,” Luce replies. “ _Come on, let’s get to work._ ”

Dean sniggers. He’d be pissed off at Luce (like the string of curses and quick gibberish in Russian implies that Cas is) but he’s pulled the don’t-worry-I-know-what-I’m-doing routine on Sam billions of times.

“ _Holy shit, Dean. You. Need. To. See. This,_ ” Sam says in awe.

“Kinda in the middle of something, Sammy.”

“ _How far have you gotten?_ ” Cas asks.

“Halfway.”

“ _Take a 30-second break and let Sam livestream it for you. We’ll only have a chance to see this once,_ ” Cas suggests.

“Alright.” Dean digs up his burner phone out of his pocket. “Ready.”

There’s an incoming video call from Sam. Dean accepts. He sucks in a breath. “Holy shit, that door is as thick as I’m wide. And is that… _money_?”

The vault door is round and a man’s width thick and looks like a hobbit door, if it were built by a dwarf or maybe a dragon. The vault itself is huge and on one side contains huge bales wrapped in plastic, loaded unto carts. On the other side, there are staple upon staple of cardboard boxes.

“ _Yep. Drug money. We’re taking one of the carts because it’s all we can fit in the van. We’ll burn the rest,_ ” Luce answers lightheartedly. Like burning millions, maybe billions of dollars doesn’t bother him. Cas is currently pushing one of the big carts towards the door. Luce is pouring gasoline over the cardboard boxes.

“ _What’s in the boxes?_ ” Sam asks. It creates an odd little echo with his voice coming both from the phone and the earbud.

“ _Documents. This is where dad’s scorn for anything digital will bite him in his ass. This is everything from old bonds worth a fortune, to leases, claims, and other important papers. In many cases, this is the only proof that our family are the rightful owners of a lot of things we acquired before the world of digitalization,_ ” Luce explains. “ _Now, get back to work. The sooner we can get out of here, the better._ ”

“ _Yes, Sir_ ,” Sam answers and hangs up the video call.

Dean would be lying if he said he isn't shaken. The size of the operation is _insane_. And who the hell in their right mind would leave a vault like that unguarded?

A vault supposedly only four people knew about. In a part of a building that has been erased from the map. A vault with the strangest, most overly elaborate system to open it. Filled with drug money, incriminating documents, and stuff that even the most loyal henchman might be tempted to steal.

Yeah… maybe keeping it hidden, pretending it isn’t there, _is_ the safest thing in a time when every faction’s just waiting for a sign of weakness from the big four.

Dean goes back to his welding.

* * *

“ _Guys. I can barely hear you anymore. I think I’m getting out of range,_ ” Sam informs them. The line is bad and Dean can barely make out his words.

“ _Keep going, Sam. We’ll follow as soon as Dean’s cleared the building. See you at the meeting point, I’m turning around now,_ ” Cas says. He’s nearly out of range too, having followed the van Sam’s driving with another car to make sure Sam’s not followed.

Dean’s hands are shaky. He hasn’t been able to breathe properly since Sam and Cas made it out with the money, loaded the van, and got away. Cas estimated that they’ve stolen between $50.000.000 and $300.000.000, depending on the denomination of the notes in the wrapped bales they stole. The Angelus both said that anything below $10 notes wouldn’t be stacked and kept in the vault. All in unmarked bills gained by drug trade. It’s insane!

No. **IT’S INSANE!!!**

They robbed the mob and got away with it.

Well. Sam and Cas got away with it. Luce and Dean are still in the dragon’s den. _I have to remember that. We’re not off the hook yet. Besides, Cas is on his way back._

He finally finishes disconnecting and welding shut the last pipe. “Done. I’m heading to the room now,” he informs the others. He leaves the tools in the shaft and crawls towards the room where Luce had left the ladder for him. He envisions the map he’s studied in his head. These shafts in the ceiling are a maze. You could easily get lost here, although, there are many hatches to get out, and a few places where you can climb up to floors above, or down below, so as long as you’re not bothered by confined spaces, it’s no worry.

It takes a few minutes before he gets to the right place. He shuts his headlamp off and carefully opens the hatch. His heart’s speeding up as he peeks down into the room. He’s screwed if someone sees him now. Somebody crawling out of a hatch in the ceiling is one thing. But if that someone is sweating like a pig (like he is) and is dressed in a suit, it _will_ look conspicuous.

Luckily, the storage room is empty and the ladder’s where it’s supposed to be. He leaves the headlight in the shaft and climbs down. He dusts himself off and touches his face beard only to discover that one side is indeed coming loose. “Fuck.”

“ _Problem?_ ”  
“ _Problem?_ ” Cas and Luce speak in unison. Cas comes through better now, showing he’s turned the car around and getting closer.

“No. Not― Look, it’s just the glue for the beard is coming loose over my lip. No biggie. I’ve sweated too fucking much, is all. It was hot in the shafts. I’ll dry my face off and press it back. I’m outta here soon anyway.”

“ _Be careful,_ ” Cas tells him.

Dean smiles to himself. “Yeah, babe. I will.” He dabs his face with the suit sleeve and presses at the beard until it sticks again. Most of the sweat is trapped inside the bulletproof vest, but the rest doesn’t show up as dark patches on the suit like he feared. _Explains why Cas was so picky about the material of the suit. As long as nobody touches me they won’t feel how grossly wet I am in places._

“ _Alright, Dean. Report when you’re out of the building. I’ll set this joint aflame and you pick me up with the car, okay?_ ” Luce commands. 

“I will. Going now.”

Dean opens the door and peeks into the empty corridor. There’s nobody there so he slinks to the door opposite that leads to a stairwell. So far, so good. He walks up the stairs two flights, listens by the door with his heart racing, hears nothing, and opens it. The corridor isn’t empty, but the people are a long way off. He walks out of the door like it’s nobody’s business. Pretending you have the right to be somewhere is the easiest way to commit crimes anyway. People rarely question you when you show absolute confidence. 

Still, the fake beard has Dean losing some of that confidence. He can feel how it’s starting to unstick again. He needs to pass the group of people standing there talking at the end of the corridor and doesn’t feel good about it.

_Or… I could walk the other direction, turn the corner and walk up the parallel corridor. There are two parallel corridors and both will take me where I need to go. That way I don’t have to pass them at all. Yeah. Good idea._

He turns on his heel and briskly walks the other direction. Once again he lifts his hand and presses at the fake beard to keep it in place. He can’t go around holding his hand there or it’ll look suspicious. He lowers his hand again.

He reaches the end of the corridor and turns the corner. The connecting corridor is also empty. They chose this floor due to how the employees here rarely work after 4 P.M. It’s a blessing. _Fuck. I worry too much. ...Yeah, because stealing a couple of hundred mil from the mafia tend to make you do that. Fuck. Chill, Winchester._

Even though nobody’s watching he tries to relax. Everything’s going to be fine. Juuuust fine. All he has to do is take a fucking elevator down, return his visitor’s badge so it doesn’t register as missing, and walk the fuck out of there.

He turns the corner to the parallel corridor and collides with somebody coming the other way. “Excuse me,” he utters and keeps walking. It’s brief and the man he bumped into only made brief eye contact, frowning.

It’s all it takes for Dean to feel all encompassing panic, because Dean _recognized_ him.

_ShitShitShit! That was Dick fucking Roman! ShitShitShit!_

From his peripheral sight Dean can see that Roman stands still, following Dean with his gaze.

Dean’s heart is racing, the hair in the back of his neck prickles, sweat once again starting to form but from fear, not heat. Adrenaline’s rushing his system. He withholds the urge to run. 

_Maybe he didn’t recognise me? Maybe he’s just staring because he thinks I’m a dick._

Just as he’s level with another crossing corridor he hears Roman talking. It sounds like Russian.

_**FUUUCK!!!** _

He turns into the crossing corridor and starts to jog. “Roman. I think he recognised me,” he whispers urgently, lifting his hand just to feel that his beard’s unstuck in a corner over his lip.

“ _What’s your position?_ ” Luce asks and Cas curses.

Dean reaches the next corridor and turns around to look and listen if he’s being followed. “I’m―”

Something slams into him from behind, hard enough to fling him forward and to the floor, knocking the air out of him with an ‘ _Oouf_ ’ noise. He struggles to get on his feet. He has the time to see a pair of suit pant clad legs with expensive, polished black shoes, before something hits him hard in the back of his head. 

The last thing he hears is Cas urgently cry “ _Dean!_ ” Then everything goes black…

* * *


	18. THE SHIP THAT SAILED

* * *

**THE SHIP THAT SAILED**

* * *

Dean comes to slowly. He’s aware of a faint headache first. Then the cold against his cheek.

Cold and hard. He’s lying on the floor. There’s an ache in his back, about the height of where his heart is. Something’s digging into his wrists. His arms feel cold too.

Confusedly he groans and blinks his eyes open. His vision is blurry. He sees a man sitting on a chair several feet away, looking at him. He’s wearing a grey suit with a blue tie, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and a black gun with a silencer dangling loosely in his hand. There’s a pile of… of… something, between his feet. Dean squints at him. His eyesight is too blurry to make out details. Brown hair? Slim, broad-shouldered… “Babe? ‘S’t you?” he asks.

“Oh, good. You’re awake. I was afraid I hit you too hard,” the figure says, voice smoother, more clear than what Dean expected, but also clipped, with an edge of contained anger. _Not Cas._

Dean’s brain starts catching up even if his eyesight still struggles. He’s lying on hard floor, not the carpet he fell on. He’s been moved. He was hit in the head. He’d seen Roman. _Fuck_. But this isn’t Roman and Roman couldn’t have come from behind. “Mikey...”

“Sweetheart, we’re not on nickname basis yet. Apparently, we’re not even on first name basis if this is to be believed.” Michael flicks his wrist and Dean’s fake ID comes flying, hitting him on the cheek and clattering to the floor in front of his face.

Dean tries sitting up, noticing that he’s restrained―hands tied behind his back, ankles tied together―and is hit with a wave of dizziness and nausea from the change in position. He closes his eyes and falls back on the ground with a groan. “Gimme a moment…” he mumbles.

“By all means. Take your time. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do,” Michael retorts sarcastically.

Dean waits for the nausea to pass, keeping his eyes closed. He can still feel the earbud in his ear, meaning they haven’t found it, but it’s eerily quiet. Maybe it’s broken?

He tries to move his wrists to figure out how well he’s tied. Pretty well. They’ve used cable ties, at least three of them. If it had been one he might have been able to snap it, but no. A little wiggling of his ankles reveals that they too are firmly held together by cable ties - more than one.

He’s cold. The sweat from earlier having cooled off. Not until now does he register that he can feel air against his arms, which, _wait a minute_...

He opens his eyes to blink down at his body. Yup. He’s down to his tee. The suit jacket, shirt, and bulletproof vest have been removed. His sight is clearing. He looks back at Michael. Michael is three images, as Dean’s seeing double (triple) at first, but then he comes into focus. “Fuck, you really are one of the prettiest men I’ve ever seen,” Dean states. “It shouldn’t be possible to look so masculine and be so pretty at the same time.” Not like Cas. Cas is beautiful, handsome, all kinds of gorgeous, but not _pretty_. His hair is longer than Cas’, swept back, with lots of volume, but has the same colour. His features finer. And right now, his eyes are _cold_.

Michael quirks his lip up in a corner but without any humour. “You expect that to work a second time? Because that ship has sailed.”

“Wasn’t expecting it to work the first time. Just tellin it like I see it.” Dean inelegantly struggles to sit up. “Damn. The fuck did you do to my back?” he complains.

Michael reaches down to the pile between his legs that Dean hasn’t paid attention to, and lifts up Dean’s bulletproof vest with one hand. He holds it up with the back towards Dean. A bullet’s still embedded in it.

_Shit. If I hadn’t been wearing it, that bullet would've gone straight through my heart._

Dean sucks in an impressed whistle. “Nice shot,” he says, then, to cover up how scared he is, he chuckles. “Well. Not _nice_ nice. But nice. You feel me?” Michael gives him a dry look and drops the vest. Now that Dean takes a closer look he can see that apart from the vest, his clothes, guns, phone, wig, and beard are also part of the pile. “It was the beard that did it, huh?”

“Actually, no. He felt the vest when you bumped into each other. If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have discovered the beard peeling off. And for the record, _I_ would have recognised those legs and ass _anywhere_.”

“Really? Wow. That’s kinda flattering.”

“You were quite memorable. So you can imagine how disappointed I was to find out that not only was there no Tom Hannigan on that flight, but there’s nobody with that name in the right age group, _at all_. I don’t like being made a fool of. So why don’t we start with you telling me your name? Your real one this time.”

“Jack.”

Michael takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, bends his neck and pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s asking for patience. Then he swiftly stands up, takes three strides and kicks Dean hard in the side.

It sends Dean tumbling back to a lying position. It hurts, but not unbearably so. No ribs crack, at least. “ _Dammit!_ What’s wrong with the name Jack, asshole?”

Michael goes back to his chair. “Nothing. Except it isn’t _your_ name. Let’s try again, shall we?”

“Fuck you. It’s my fucking name.” Dean struggles to sit up again and glares at him.

“Really?” Michael arches an eyebrow and gives him a flat look. “And your last name?”

“Uh. Sparrow?” Dean answers questioningly and gives him a fake smile.

Michael presses his lips together to a firm line and gets up from the chair again. He strides back to Dean and delivers another hard kick, this time hitting the soft parts in Dean’s middle. Dean cries out in pain and is flung to the floor, a second kick rolls him to his stomach. The third lands on his kidney and makes him cry out again. Michael crouches down, putting his knee on the side of Dean’s neck, putting weight on it while he presses the gun to Dean’s temple.

“ _JENSEN! Jensen! It’s Jensen, alright? My name is Jensen. Jensen. Fuck! Mikey, I swear, it’s Jensen. Please,_ ” Dean cries out, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing roughly. It takes a braver, more foolish man than Dean (if that’s possible) not to be scared shitless with the promise of imminent death pressed against his temple. And it’s not like it’s a lie. Dean’s a worthless street rat, just like Jensen had been. Dean loved that stupid rat. He saw himself in the critter. So by proxy, Jensen might very well be his name.

“Jensen? You Danish or something?”

“ _No_. I’m American, you ass. Why the fuck would I be Danish?” He opens his eyes to try to look at the man hovering above him. He knows his fear and resentment shows in his eyes. How could it not? He's dead already. Screwed seven times over. “Are _you_ Danish?” he chokes out. It's hard to breathe with the knee on his neck. There's no way Cas or Luce will find him in time. Even if he wasn't tied up and unarmed, he couldn't do much to defend himself. ‘Micha’s not to be harmed’ is more than just an order. Michael is a Sam to Cas and Luce. They love him dearly despite everything. He can’t hurt Michael and risk a family feud he won’t be there to participate in.

Michael ignores the question. “Where's my key?”

“Your what?” Dean thinks it's time he decides what to do. He doesn't think he'll get out of here alive. There's a slight chance his earbud is working still. Cas and Luce might be listening in, keeping radio silence. He should at least _try_ to give them his position. And if Michael asks for the key he doesn't know he's been robbed yet. _Yeah, let's keep it that way, shall we?_

If he's about to die, the least he can do is further their cause to spread mayhem and dissent within the Garrison. Set them up against each other and eradicate trust. He tries to remember all he can about the big four. Uriel is on the business side of things. Dean doesn't think he's all that interested in being God. Megatron (or whatever) seems to vie for the same position he had with Cas and Luce’s dad - second in command, whispering advice without taking responsibility for it. He also appears to be closest to Michael. That leaves Zachariah. Dean knows next to nothing about him except what he looks like. Right now he's grateful he's been shown pictures of all of the big four. He'll have to wing it on that information.

Michael gets up and delivers another jarring kick to Dean's side. “Don't play stupid. The key you stole from me. _Where is it?_ ” he demands.

“ _What key?!_ ”

Dean sees Michael pull back his leg for another kick and flips over to his back. It hurts like a motherfucker in his wrists and where previous kicks had landed. Michael dances out of reach at the sudden move, but it isn't an offensive move. He lets his legs fall open as far as his ankle restraints allow. “Here's my balls, asshole. Why don't you stomp yourself tired and then take a chill pill and explain to me what fucking key you're talking about, cuz I've got no frigging clue!” Dean glares at him defiantly, teeth gritted in frustration. “If you hurt me enough, I promise, I'll make up some good answer for you. _Fuck_. I'm just a doll dancing on somebody else's strings anyway.” Dean braces for the upcoming pain when Michael stares coldly at him, lips a thin line. Dean sees him lift a leg so he closes his eyes. But instead, he hears Michael step over him, muttering “ты слишком хорош, чтобы умереть,” to himself. Dean would give his right arm to know what that means. When he opens his eyes Michael is back in his original position in the chair, elbows leaned on his knees, gun dangling loosely from his hand.

Dean struggles to sit up again. Michael is quiet, just looking at him, not seeming to be in any hurry. _Time to try to give them my position on the off chance that they're still listening._ He looks around. “I like what you've done to the place. Hardwood floor, bare walls, no curtains and no furniture. Minimalistic. Really makes the room look more spacious than the shoebox it is. And hey! Nice view of the Ronson building too. Except for the way the setting sun reflects right in here from its windows.” That's the best Dean can do. Small empty room high up on the east side of the building. He knows he's high up or the sun wouldn't reach the Ronson building - the Garrison HQ would be in the way. He gives Michael a plastic smile.

“You done?” Michael asks with a bored voice.

“Dude. I won't be _done_ done until you pull the trigger on me.”

“Don't tempt me.”

“Oh come on, Mikey. What else is there to do in here?” Dean jokes.

“Jensen, who are you?”

“Me? I'm nobody. I'm your regular working-class hero who stepped on the wrong toes and have to pay for it. I'm just following orders, babe. Whatever it is you want to know, you're probably not going to get the answer from me. I'm cannon fodder. Or what was it he said? An _expendable_.” Dean makes sure to appear bitter over the last part.

“Are you here alone?”

“Yeah.”

“Who are you working for?”

“I don't know.”

Michael snorts. “You don't know?”

“No. He didn't give me a name. Just told me to call him _God._ ” Dean’s face twists in disgust at that last part.

He sees interest spark in Michael's eyes. “God? What does he look like?”

_Bingo. Swallow the bait, Mikey boy. Go hunt down Zachariah._ “Balding white guy. Slimy fucker, thinks too highly of himself. Wears a suit.” At least, that’s what he’d looked like on the photo.

“And what are your orders?”

“Keep track of you. Report to him if you leave the city.”

“How much is he paying you?”

“He isn't.”

Michael lifts an eyebrow in try amusement. “I'm supposed to believe you're doing it out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Of course not! A douchebag who wants me to call him God? Fuck no. I spat in his face. But he's got my brother and if I don't dance like a puppet, my brother dies. That might not mean anything to you. You're probably the only child. But I've been taking care of my little bro since we were orphaned as teens and he's my fucking life. Who are you anyway? I thought you were just some competing businessman, but businessmen don't have… that.” Dean nods a gesture at Michael’s gun with its silencer.

Michael’s not answering questions, though. “What were you doing at the airport?”

Dean makes a grimace and sinks in on himself as if he’s embarrassed. “Oh. Um. I wasn't supposed to do that. I was just supposed to find you and keep a stealthy eye on you.”

“That wasn't exactly stealthy,” Michael points out. That edge of cold anger he’d had earlier isn’t visible anymore.

Dean rolls his eyes. The headache is receding, the places he’s been kicked are sore, but it’s still nothing he can’t ignore. “I know that. I may be foolish but I'm not _dumb_. After I got your itinerary from the guy at the whore house―“

“The guy at the whore house?” Michael probes. Dean wonders how much he believes. But Dean’s playing the role of a coerced thug with no wish to be loyal to his master so it’s not unthinkable that he might be spilling his guts like this.

“Yeah. Blond guy with too much cleavage and a belief he'd get to fuck me, Bal, I think his name was? He gave me your travel plans. So I went to the airport to confirm they were legit. And there you were. So fucking _gorgeous_.” Dean shakes his head ruefully. “I was supposed to stay invisible but I had to take a closer look. I _had_ to. Fuck me, babe, but when you patched my hand up my heart was racing like a bitch and it wasn't out of fear. You had me seriously considering treason there for a beat. I almost doubled back to talk to you. To… I don't know. But fuck. I couldn't. Not with my brother's life on the line. If you had a brother, you'd understand. Yet, I considered it. You've got a smile of an angel, you know that?” He isn’t lying now. The fewer lies he tells, the more convincing the rest of his lies will be.

“An angel, huh?” An edge of hardness creeps back into Michael’s features. That’s not something he’s pleased to hear.

“Yeah. ‘S like looking into the sun, getting hit by its power, full force. Don't get me wrong. I don't believe in angels.” Dean shakes his head. “Okay, all right. You know what? I get it. Some people have faith. That's — hey, good for them. I'm sure it makes things easier. I'll tell you who had faith like that — My mom. She used to tell me when she tucked me in that angels were watching over us. In fact, that was the last thing she ever said to me. She was wrong. There was nothing protecting us. There's no higher power, there's no God. I mean, there's just chaos, and violence, and random unpredictable evil that ... that comes out of nowhere, and rips you to shreds. But for a moment you had me wanting to believe. That fucking smile of yours. Yeah, that’s an angel’s smile alright.”

For a long time Michael is silent. Scrutinizing Dean with an expression that gives away nothing except that he’s thinking. Then he blinks and shifts, expression becoming a bit more open. “So the only reason you're working for Za― _God_ , is that he's holding your brother hostage?”

“Yeah.”

Michael leans back in the chair. “So… if I'd offer to save your brother, what would you say?”

No. That’s not fair play. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. Dean won’t take it. Refuses to be given even the illusion of a choice to switch allegiances. He glares at Michael, nostrils flaring. “I'd say you're full of _shit_. You think I'm stupid? You can't trust _anyone_ with a silencer on their gun.”

Michael arches an eyebrow dryly. He reaches down in Dean's pile and holds up the single gun with a silencer Dean had been equipped with.

“ _Exactly._ See? You get me.”

Michael laughs at that, low and pleasant. “You're not doing yourself any favors by talking like that.”

“Babe, as long as my little brother is in danger, you can only trust about 50 to 70% of what I say to be true.”

Michael smiles and tips his head to the side in an interested gesture. Nothing like the birdlike curious tilt of his brothers. “50 to 70, huh? Funny, that was my estimation too.”

And that's fucking bone chilling because now Dean's left second guessing what Michael believes or not and that makes Dean completely unsure of himself. He swallows dryly and looks at the window. He reminds himself that Cas and Luce consider Michael to be the most dangerous out of the three. Cas says he _barely_ outmatches Michael with firearms, and after almost two weeks of working with the Angelus brothers Dean's developed a healthy respect for their skills and twisted morals. Michael isn't _that_ threatening and hasn't done much except give him a couple of kicks. That doesn't mean he can't or won't do worse when he's done with Dean.

Dean's sudden nerves must be showing because Michael chuckles again. But he remains silent, just studying Dean to see what he’ll do next.

“Hey, Mikey?”

“Yes, _Jenny_.”

Michael doesn't like to be called Mikey judging by the bite in his tone. Still, the disparaging tone and feminine nickname rub at old wounds. “Nevermind. The answer was probably no anyway. And why don't you go with ‘Ken doll’ while you're at it? Talk about my cocksucking lips and princess-pussy too. Fuck you.” Dean inelegantly flops back to a lying position and refuses to look at Michael.

Michael's quiet, waiting. He can wait all he wants. What's the point? Dean's walls are coming up.

“Jen?”

Now that's different. No acid or scorn. Dean doesn't react.

“Hey, Jen. You're allowed to ask questions,” Michael insists in a friendly, almost placating tone.

“Forget it. The nickname you used was answer enough.”

“Little boys are named Mikey,” Michael counters.

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry,” Dean bites bitterly without being apologetic at all. “Mikey’s what I’ve called you in my head, thinking of all the could-have-would-have-should-haves if we’d met under different circumstances. Mikey is not the name of a little boy, it’s the man stripped bare of bodyguards and expensive suits. It’s the guy with a stray pine needle or two caught in his hair, smelling of campfire smoke, fish, beer, and mosquito repellent, whose laughter is hushed not to startle the deer grazing at the river bank, whose eyes twinkle in the firelight, and whose smile while he’s lying on the grass, looking up at the night sky, outshines the stars. Mikey doesn’t exist.” Now Dean looks back at Michael and finds the same hard bitterness he’s feeling reflected back at him in Michael’s face. _Why? Why would you be pissed about that?_ “So you say I’m allowed to ask questions. _Fine._ I wanted to ask if a guy like you could ever truly be interested in a street rat like me. For real, I mean. Not just as a simple fuck doll. I know how I look. I’ve heard it all. Boy pussy. Pretty like a girl. Not like you. You’re the epitome of everything a man should be. But me? A _Jenny_.” Dean snorts and struggles to a sitting position again. “Could you, Mikey? Could you have been interested in me for more than just sex? Would you have gone on that fishing trip with me to get to know _me_?”

Michael drags a hand over his mouth and bends his neck to look down at the pile between his legs or possible his gun. He’s quiet for a while. When he looks up again his face is devoid of feelings, almost bored. “It’s irrelevant now, isn’t it? I told you, that ship has sailed.”

Not to mention that Dean has a boyfriend he’s head over heels in love with. But Michael doesn’t have to know that.

“Not to you maybe. But come on. We both know this ends with you putting a bullet in my head. You can at least give me that.”

Michael shakes his head slightly. Dean can’t tell if it’s a no to the question if he could be interested in Dean or whether it’s a no to answering the question. He doesn't say anything more.

Dean fills out the silence. “Dad took us there once. Before he sold the car. Our last ever vacation. He packed us into the car and drove cross country with us bickering constantly in the back like brothers do. My little brother surprisingly hated camping. You'd never guess if you met him. He's a complete nature nut. You know. Save the bees, save the trees, save the icebergs and whatever. Eats ecological foods and mostly green shit. He's not an idiot, though. If there's no choice he'll eat whatever. Which is damned lucky because he was 14 when we were orphaned and forced to live on the streets. But he can't stand mosquitoes. ‘S funny because I was the one who complained all the way to the campsite and I'm the one who loved it.”

Michael studies him in silence. The boredom is exchanged for keen interest but Dean can’t tell whether it’s positive or negative interest so he falls silent.

When Michael realises Dean isn’t going to talk more, he says “What are you really doing here, Jen? You’ve killed two of my men, walk around dressed for war, in full disguise. You’re not just here to keep track of me. If you’d been shadowing me since the airport, I would have noticed.”

_Killed two―? Oh. He must be talking about the two men Cas took out earlier. Fuck. Why the hell is he being so patient with me if he thinks I’ve killed them?_ “Babe, I need to eat and sleep, and you’ve stayed at the same hotel while you’ve been here. You think I’d go out of my way to please a self-important slimeball who wants me to call him _God_? I’m doing my bare minimum, hoping my brother will escape so we both can be free. I was told there was a stir here and I needed to find out why,” Dean hedges.

“And did you?”

“ _No._ Some asshole knocked me out. Say, how big’s the chance you’d just _tell me_ what got you riled up, so I can report it and be on my way?” Dean suggests and gives him a shiteating grin.

Michael laughs and smiles warmly at him. “I’ll think about it, Jen,” he lies. At least, Dean thinks he’s lying. Michael picks up something from Dean’s pile and holds it up. “Why did you keep this?”

Dean’s eyes widen in surprise, then he averts his gaze. He feels guilt crawling in his gut. He can’t explain why he’s still walking around with Michael’s handkerchief on his person, carefully cleaned from blood and neatly folded into a little square. Cas wouldn’t like it if he knew. “It was a gift. You keep those.”

“No. That’s not it. Why did you keep it?”

Dean looks back at Michael. Michael’s expression is kind and patient. It’s a gift of his. One wants to trust him, even in a situation like this. A muscle by his eye keeps ticking, though―a traitorous whisper making lie of the benevolent expression. “Because of how my heart missed a beat when you wrapped it around my hand.”

Michael draws breath to answer but is cut short when his phone rings. He answers with a short “Yes?” His face and posture don't give much away but Dean swears the temperature in the room drops by several degrees anyway. He listens intently, then rattles off an answer in Russian. If Dean survives this, he swears he’s gonna take lessons in Russian because too many times now he’s missed out on valuable information that his life might depend upon. When Michael hangs up he pockets his phone and gets to his feet. He squeezes the handle of his gun and walks over to Dean.

Despite the mild expression on Michael’s face Dean feels a burst of fear, shooting his pulse skywards, making the hair on his arms stand on end. _This is it. This is where I die. Cas or Luce did something. Whatever it was, it failed. Dean Winchester won’t be saved. Buh-bye._ He lies down on his back when Michael comes closer. It hurts both hands and makes the cable ties cut into his wrists, but it’s a gesture of submission. Michael’s not to be harmed. Emotionally he’s Sam to Luce and Cas. Dean has to remember that. If that wasn’t the case, Dean wouldn’t be thinking of submitting like this, accepting his fate, but if he dies Sam won't be dragged out of the safe place he is at to rescue him, and the Angelus brothers will keep Sam safe. He'll have to trust them to do that.

Michael squats down beside him. “You know what the problem is, Jensen?”

“Global warming?”

Michael blinks flatly at him, then straddles him, putting weight on Dean’s pelvis, _crushing_ Dean’s hands and making the cable ties cut in even worse. Dean grimaces from the pain. Michel reaches out with his free hand and touches Dean’s face gently. “The problem, Jen, is that I _want_ to believe you. You mix enough truth in with your bullshit, that it’s hard to tell what’s true and what isn’t.” Soft fingertips trail over Dean’s forehead, the bridge of his nose, over his cheekbone and down along his jawbone all the way to his lips. “I’m biased, you see. The answer to your question earlier is yes, and therefore I really tried to believe you. I normally don’t. If you know who I am, you understand why I don’t cut people any slack.” Michael’s fingers dance over Dean’s lips then travel down to his throat to feel his rampant pulse. “But the first thing you said to me keeps niggling at me.”

Dean’s mouth is so dry it’s hard to swallow. The loud ‘ _gulp_ ’ noise he makes is almost comical. “Gimme a moment…?”

Michael chuckles, eyes going hard and flat. He presses his gun to Dean’s temple. “Who’s ‘babe’?”

_Shit. I thought he was Cas when I woke up. If I was working alone I wouldn’t be expecting someone to be there._

“You are.”

“Wrong answer. Try again.”

“You are.”

Michael pulls back the hammer of the gun. It's all for show. He doesn't need to. All he has to do is pull the trigger and the gun will automatically pull the hammer back. It's scare tactics. Dean knows that. It doesn't mean it isn't working. “Stop testing my patience. Try again.”

Dean’s skin feels cold and clammy, sweat prickling. He reeks of it after the sweat from earlier having dried. “Fuck sake, Michael, just end it. We both know I'm never going to be able to guess the right answer.”

Anger flashes in Michael’s eyes. “You expect me to make it quick? What makes you think I won’t have you tortured? And with a beautiful face like yours, raped, before I let you die?”

“So you’re going to dump me off to your men, huh?” That might not be a bad thing. Then at least he could try to defend himself. Michael’s the one who’s not to be harmed.

Michael scoffs.”You don’t think I’m capable of doing those things to you myself? Think again.”

Actually, Dean _doesn’t_ think he’s capable of rape. Stupid, perhaps, but both Cas and Luce are very particular about consent. It appears to be bone deep. He’s gotten to know them well enough to know that. (Luce, on the other hand, will gladly make sexual moves to make people uncomfortable.) Dean thinks it’s a family thing. Torture on the other hand? Yeah… Michael would do that. Luce and Cas too. Fucking psychos, all of them.

Dean sits up slowly and Michael scoots back to let him, gun firmly pressed to Dean’s forehead. The move dislodges Dean’s hands from underneath his body, making it hurt even worse where the ties have cut in, before he feels relief. He withholds a wince. He thinks Michael must be really fucking sure of both his own abilities to take pain and to fight, to allow Dean to sit up like this, because tied up or not, Dean could do some harm before he got shot. A quick headbutt to break that pretty nose, or if he’s really lucky, knock Michael out. They come face to face, intimately close like this. Michael smells pleasant of a fresh aftershave almost worn off, mixed with a faint hint of sweat. His irises are green with a light hazel ring around the pupils. Dean thinks that they probably shift colour as much as Cas’ does. He even has a dusting of small freckles over the bridge of his nose that is only visible this close. His gaze trails over Dean’s face and to his eyes curiously. Their conversation has gone on long enough for Dean to figure out that it’s Michael’s M.O. to study, listen, and not reveal his own cards, but this close, breath intermingled, Dean can see how fast Michael’s heart is beating despite his calm demeanour. “Sweetheart, you could never rape me. It would require the lack of consent,” Dean tells him lowly. “‘Course, I had imagined you underneath me, not the other way around.”

“Why? You want to dominate me?” Michael asks coldly.

Dean averts his gaze. “ _No._ No. Nothing like that. I'm not―” His gaze snaps back to lock on Michael. “Unless you're into that…?” He licks his lips and swallows dryly. “Are you, Mikey?” Dean's voice comes out low and rough. “Always the guy on top of things. Would you like to be the one held down and fucked like a dog? No responsibility, no control, no hard choices, not a care in the world, just balancing on the edge between pleasure and pain of rough worship and filthy words through gritted teeth.” Michael’s nostrils flare, pupils widening. _Shit, you **are** , aren’t you?_ “I could do that. I'm versatile.” Dean lets it sink in, watching the reaction. _God_ , Michael's eyes are so intense. Intense enough for Dean to forget the pain in his wrists. To forget the gun against his head, the gun that's being lowered slightly. To take a deep breath of Michael's scent and taste his exhale, to be aware of the heat coming from his body.

“There are things I couldn't do, though,” Dean continues, lowering his voice further. “I couldn't spit on you. I could slap you, but never ball my hand into a fist. I couldn't degrade you even if you begged me. It's not who I am. If that's what you're into, I'm sorry but it'd be doomed from the start. I guess it's the big brother instinct. I’d want to take care of you too much.” Dean closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Michael's. He’s being _allowed_ to. Michael’s breath feels hot against his skin. “But I could still fold you in half, hold you down, leave kissbitten bruises and go full alpha on you. Would you like that, Mikey? Would you like to be my boy?” Dean opens his eyes again.

Yes. The answer is yes. It's vibrating in the air, spelled out in the redness of Michael's cheeks, the rapid beat of his heart, his dilated pupils. And _fuck_. Dean wants it too. Right now Dean wants it. What is it about this man that’s so narcotizing? How is it possible to be so in love with someone as Dean is with Cas, and _still_ want to be with someone else? There’s just something about Michael that turns the bullshit lies Dean tells into truth.

Still. This ship sailed less than 24 hours before he and Michael even met.

“What I want has nothing to do with it,” Michael says, barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry, Jen…” He licks his lips. “The only mercy I can give, is to make it quick.”

Dean swallows dryly and nods. “Do it.”

A mask of determination shutters over Michael’s features. He presses his gun more firmly against Dean’s face, just under the cheekbone, angled so the bullet will go up and out through the back of his skull.

Dean feels like such a fucking pussy because his eyes sting and begin to fill up with tears. He doesn’t want to die. Not like this. Not _ever_. He doesn’t want to cry about it like some fucking baby. It’s humiliating, and it’s nothing he can do to stop it. When he blinks, his lashes turn wet and a single tear leaves its perch in his eyes to roll down his cheek. He holds Michael’s gaze. The fucker doesn’t pull the trigger. Just strokes the trigger slowly over and over again, drawing out the moment, waiting for… what? Dean to break down and beg? To tell him the truth? To wail and sob like some loser who can’t stand the heat? No. This is the only way Dean knows to keep Sam and Cas safe. If he’s dead, they won’t come for him.

Suddenly the lamps in the ceiling flicker and go out, leaving the room lit only by the golden square of light from the window. Somewhere inside the building there’s a loud bang and an alarm signal starts tooting.

Michael’s eyes sparkle, mouth widening into a devious grin. “By my guess, _that_ would be ‘babe’,” he says like it’s fantastic news. He swiftly gets up from Dean’s lap, holsters his gun and skips over to the pile of Dean’s stuff. He picks up the guns and turns to Dean. “Stick around will you, Jenny? I’ll be back as soon as this pesky little ‘babe’ detail has be dealt with.” Then he winks cheekily with a bright smile, and leaves the room.

Dean’s left trembling with relief, breathing roughly.

This changes things…

* * *


	19. FIRST PERSON SHOOTER

* * *

**FIRST PERSON SHOOTER**

* * *

Dean flips onto his belly, bends his legs, feet up towards his ass to grab one of the cable ties binding his feet. He jerks, using his whole body for leverage, grimacing as one of the ties around his wrists break the skin. The first tie around his ankles snaps, though. 

_Yesss. One down, two to go._

“In case you can still hear me, Michael's left the room and there's no one else in here. I'm working on getting my bindings off. My legs will be free in a minute but my wrists will be a problem. I'm unarmed. There are no weapons in the room,” he informs whoever may or may not be listening in case his earbud still works. 

He repeats the process, grabbing the next cable tie around his ankles and jerks again. This time he cuts himself on the plastic before it snaps open. He sucks in a pained breath and kicks his legs to get the last cable tie to open. It works. His legs are free. Cable ties are awesome as temporary restraints but pretty easy to get out of if you don't have to be discreet. (And don't mind bleeding a little, apparently.)

He rolls over to his side and with a lot of wiggling, ignoring the increasing pain where his wrist tie cut through the skin, chafing, he manages to get his butt through the loop of his arms. The rest is just flopping and rolling around inelegantly to get his legs all the way through. He's panting and sweating in exertion by the time his wrists are finally in front of him. He's bleeding in two places on the same hand. He walks over to his pile to see what’s left there. No weapons. He grabs Michael’s handkerchief and ties it around the cut in his palm as well as he can with his hands tied, using his mouth to tie the knot. 

He can’t put on the vest with his hands tied, but he does take a moment to touch the bullet embedded in the back.

_Michael said Roman noticed the vest. I heard Roman talk on the phone. Did Michael know I was wearing the vest before he shot me? Maybe he didn’t want me dead?_

_Yeah, right. Wishful thinking. It was just dumb luck, that’s what it was._

Dean drops the vest and goes to the door. He takes a couple of deep breaths then carefully tries the handle. It’s unlocked. Slowly he opens it enough to peek outside. The corridor is dark, only lit by blue dots on the floor on each side of the carpet. Every tenth dot is an arrow head presumably pointing at the exits. Dean can’t see any people. “My door’s unguarded. It woulda been great if you could instruct me where to go next. Just sayin. Find you or get out?”

No answer.

He hadn’t really expected one.

Somewhere on this floor, but far off, he hears a gun being fired repeatedly.

“Alright. I’ll just go to where people are shooting. You’re bound to be there.” Yeah, because that’s the smart thing to do. Walk _towards_ the gunfire. 

Still, he hesitates for a beat before he leaves the false sense of security of the empty room. Michael almost shot him. The image of Michael’s finger stroking the trigger over and over flashes before his eyes. 

_Why the fuck didn’t he shoot me? He could have blown my brains out the moment the alarm sounded. He didn’t just spare me because he’s attracted to me, did he?_

Now, with Michael no longer present, guilt slams into him. 

_The hell was I thinking? What’s fucking wrong with me?_

Oh, he could explain it away. He just said those things to make Michael keep him alive, to fool him into not shooting Dean. He could have done more with Michael and still explained it as a trick to survive. Sure. But it wouldn’t have been true. Michael had had a gun pressed against Dean’s temple and Dean _still_ had wanted to fucking taste him. It’s easy to lie convincingly when you aren’t lying to begin with. That’s why Dean couldn’t say ‘yes, please’ when Michael made the tentative offer to save Sam. It would have been the smartest move, to cheat him into thinking he could win Dean over and use him for his own means. Only, how long would it take before he’d actually won Dean over? Not long. Not with him present, working his mind magic. No. Dean would rather get shot than to betray Cas that way. Thinking about Cas now, and the feeling of butterflies and internal champagne bubbles Cas causes, makes Dean wonder how the hell he could have wanted Michael to start with. Loyalty is fucking everything and Dean’s been having these fucked up rosy daydreams of spending his life with Cas.

_No. Stop. Now is not the time to be fretting about fidelity. Michael kept me alive because he suspected I wasn’t alone from the start, and he was hoping that keeping me would draw out my partners. That’s it, right? The rest was just him playing along. Right? Right. Let’s go with that. It would explain why he looked so chipper when the alarm started blaring. Except, why didn’t he shoot me then?_

_...Probably plans to torture me afterwards. Show me the dead bodies of my partners, taunt me, and try to scare me enough to confess the truth. Yeah. I should be thinking of him as the intelligent, manipulative villain he is._

With that thought, Dean slinks out of the room in search of his companions.

* * *

_Where the hell did all these bozos come from?_

Dean’s discovered that this floor is being renovated. Furthermore, it’s full of mobster thugs. He feels like he’s in Die Hard or a video game or something, trying to make his way to an exit. The elevators are shut down and the corridors are dotted with armed men popping in and out of rooms. More importantly, they’re guarding the entrances to the stairwells. Dean’s peeking out from a crossing corridor towards the third exit. There are five men standing there - two in suits, three in street wear. Dean’s not sure how long he was unconscious, but while he was out, Michael obviously called in the cavalry, because thugs like that weren’t skipping around in the Garrison building before.

_Fuck._

“Well, well, well. What do we have here? The pretty one out for a stroll?”

_Roman. Double fuck._

Dean turns around slowly. A second ago nobody had been within sight and now Roman’s six feet away with a sardonic smile, looking smug, pointing a gun at him. “Hey. Dick, right? Good name. Suits you. Underlines your personality traits.” Dean bares his teeth in a bad mimicry of a smile.

Roman smirks indulgently. “More of a size thing, really. And now that the boss man isn’t here to veto it, who knows? I might let you experience that firsthand.”

Dean withholds a gagging noise. Roman is the kind of guy that would have been handsome if his sense of self-importance didn’t make him appear slimy enough to put eels to shame. The way he’s looking at Dean isn’t helping. Like he’s prey. Fuck that. Dean might be a bitch, but he ain’t nobody’s bitch. He weighs his chances to get to Roman before he gets shot. Six feet is a little too far off. Dean smiles. “Oh. Right. I’m flattered. Really, I am. But sorry, buddy, I don’t swing that way.”

“I’m pretty certain that’s a lie measured by the simpering you gave the boss man.”

“Oh, no. You misunderstand. I definitely swing _his_ way. _You_ however…”

Roman’s smug smirk wavers for a beat, anger flashing in his eyes. He motions with his gun. “Get on your knees, pretty boy.”

“Fuck. Don’t shoot, okay? I’d put my hands up, but I’m a little tied up right now,” Dean flusters with a nervous laugh and (mostly) fakes fear. He slowly gets to his knees not to tempt Roman to shoot.

Roman smirks. The fucker is one of those who get off on being feared. “Funny guy, huh? That’s good because…” Roman looks around, careful while he does it, like he knows he’s doing something he shouldn’t. He hones back on Dean and leers. “We’re going to have some fun, you and I.”

“Gonna have to buy me dinner first.”

Roman snorts. The darkness combined with the blue light from below makes him look downright sinister. “I’ll give you something to eat, alright.” Roman holsters his gun and takes out a knife from his pocket. “And give you a permanent smile while I’m at it, since you’re such a funny guy and all.”

“Like the Joker, right? Yeah, that’s been done before. You’re not the creative type, are you?” _Come on, douchewad. Come closer._

Roman gives him a feral smile and stalks closer, the blade in his hand catching the light. “Oh, I’ll be very creative, you’ll s―” He breaks off and listens intently.

On the opposite side of the floor gun shots can be heard, followed by shouting and more gunshots.

Roman’s smirk gets wider. “It seems your friends have been found. That means we won’t be disturbed for a while.”

“Please. Please don’t kill me. I swear I’ll do anything,” Dean begs, pretending to be terrified by the prospect of his companions having been found, widening his eyes and adding a tremble to his voice.

Roman wants to believe him, just like Michael said he had wanted to believe Dean. Only, judging by the self-satisfied expression on Roman’s face, his ego wins out, propelling him to real belief in Dean’s fear. “I know you will. I’ll see to it that you do,” he purrs and steps within range. 

Dean hunches his shoulders, cowers. His heart's pounding like a drum, adrenaline-fueled and ready for action. Roman reaches out and grabs Dean by the hair, using his other hand to caress the knife from Dean’s lips up to his cheekbone. Dean withholds another gag.

Roman leers, leaning down to come face to face with Dean. “We’re going to go into one of these rooms where we’ll be undisturbed, there I’ll―” 

Dean lashes out and grabs the wrist of Roman’s knife hand and yanks to the side, unbalancing Roman with his sudden move. Roman tries to straighten out, but Dean’s grip prevents him, locks him in his bent position. He quickly headbutts Roman, once, twice, and Roman collapses, knife clattering to the floor.

Dean grabs the knife. He doesn’t give Roman the chance to collect himself before he stabs him in the neck repeatedly. Blood gurgles out of Roman’s mouth, pulsates out of his wounds with decreasing strength. It looks black in the faint blue light. Quickly, Dean steals the gun from Roman’s holster and retreats into the nearest room. It’s windowless and pitch black since there are no window in here.

Dean lets out a shuddering breath. He sits down on the floor by the wall, puts the gun down on the floor beside him, and starts sawing at the cable ties around his wrists. He’s glad for the darkness. His hands are sticky with blood and his gut keeps turning.

 _Fucking idiot. You had a perfectly good, ranged weapon and still, you had to exchange it for the knife and get up-close and personal. You think I’m harmless just because I’m tied up? Fucking stupid moron. Mikey got to touch me because I_ let him _touch me. Is that why you did it? Wanted a piece of what the boss man had?_

Dean keeps a running conversation in his head with the man he just killed. As much as Dean wants to be badass and chill, he isn’t. His hands are trembling, making it harder to handle the slippery knife with the very limited leverage his tied wrist offers. It’s no different from any other times he’d taken a life. He always get nauseated and frets. The upside is that the mix of adrenaline and self-doubt makes his skin go numb. He barely feels his wounds and doesn't even notice the new cut when the knife slips. He can _fake_ being chill about it if he has an audience. He did that in prison. But alone? Even in such stressful situation as this is, he gets the shakes.

“Man up, Winchester. The guy had it coming.”

The first cable tie snaps open so he starts in on the next. He can hear intermittent gun shots through the door. It takes some time, but finally, both of the remaining cable ties break. He pats the floor beside him until he feels the gun, and grabs it. 

“Alright. If you’re still listening, I’ve freed myself from my bonds and acquired both a gun and a knife. I’m alone in a room. Roman’s dead.”

There’s a static sound in his earbud, then…

“ _Good work, Maverick._ ”

Dean’s heart misses a beat. “Luce?”

“ _Yes, Tyro. We’re coming for you. But we’re still not sure we’re on the right floor. The five top floors are closed for renovations and we’ve gone through two, starting in on the third. It would seem Micha’s stashed his― Fuck!_ ” There’s a break where Dean can’t hear anything but a punched out sound, a hiss and rough breathing, then “ _Micha stashed his backup,_ ” Luce continues as if he was never interrupted. “ _He certainly knew something was amiss or there wouldn’t be this many of them. Good work on giving us your approximate position._ ”

“I can hear gunshots on this floor so you must be in the right spot.” 

“ _Excellent._ ”

“All the exits are blocked, I think. I’ve checked three this far. Is Sam alright?”

“ _He is, but he’s on his way back here. We took too long to be able to keep him in the dark, and when he heard you were in trouble…_ ”

“He came straight away. Got it. He’s the best getaway driver we could get so as long as we get out before he gets here, he can be kept out of harm's way. And Cas? Is he alright?”

Lucifer sniggers. “ _Not even close. I’m afraid you broke him, Maverick. Your boyfriend is having a jealous fit. I disengaged him from our communications to give you a heads up about that because I honestly can’t tell if some of his ire might be directed towards you too. On the bright side, he currently makes Micha’s men appear as competent as stormtroopers._ ”

_Oh, shit._

“Dude, he gets that I’ll play any card if it ensures my survival, right?”

“ _About that. When someone’s about to blow your brain out, you’re not supposed to tell them to_ do it.”

“I was thinking―”

“ _I know what you were thinking,_ ” Lucifer cuts him off, annoyance clear in his voice. “ _This self-sacrificial bullshit of yours needs to stop. Put some fucking faith in us. Nobody gets left behind. Is that clear?_ ”

“Yes, Sir.”

“ _Good._ ” Just like that, the sharp sting in Luce’s voice is replaced by amicability again. “ _Do you know where you are? You think you could get yourself to the westernmost exit?_ ”

“Yes, Sir.”

“ _We’ll make our way back there then. You’ll know you’re approaching the right exit when you see the floor lamps are broken in places. I’ll keep all our mics connected but we go on radio silence from here on. Don’t be alarmed by our silence. Only talk to us if you’re in need of backup._ ”

“Yes, Sir.”

Significantly calmer, Dean pockets the blade and leaves the room to brave the maze of corridors and rooms, wishing he’d seen the floor plans for this floor too while they were prepping.

* * *

Getting to the westmost exit is a lot harder than one would think. There are four long parallel corridors with several crossing corridors like a grid. Because of the renovations there are ladders, buckets with paint, power tools, materials, stacked both in rooms and corridors, creating hiding places and illusions of people where there are none. Some of the rooms have camp cots in them, giving credibility to the claim that Michael had his backup stashed away here. Some of the rooms have doors to more than one corridor. That is something Dean learns the hard way when he ducks into a room to avoid discovery.

He stays still in the darkness, ear pressed against the door to listen for when the coast is clear.

Suddenly, the sound of an opening door behind him makes him spin around with his gun drawn and heart in his throat. 

There’s a silhouette of a man outlined with blue light on the opposite side of the room. The man must have spotted his movement because he raises his gun.

Dean feels the bite of fear like pins and needles in his hands and scalp. He pulls the trigger.

There’s a bright flash from the muzzle of the man’s gun before he collapses, and a sharp pain in Dean’s cheek as he throws himself to the side, stumbling into a table with tools on.

“Fuck!”

“ _You okay, Mav?_ ”

His hip hurt where he stumbled into the table and his hand shake when it lifts it to feel his cheek. A white spot dances for his eyes where the gunfire destroyed his night vision.

It fucking hurts to touch his cheek. There’s something embedded there. Dean grabs it and pulls it out, hissing in pain.

“ _Maverick, talk to me!_ ” Lucifer demands urgently. Cas’ voice can be heard too for the first time since they reconnected communications, but all that can be heard from him is an incoherent growling.

“‘S nothing. ‘M fine,” Dean whispers feeling the wooden splinter in his hand, sticky with his blood. Wooden splinter from the door where the guy’s bullet had hit. Close enough to almost get Dean.

_Fuckfuckfuck―_

The nausea comes fast and is overwhelming. Dean can’t stop it. He bends over as far as he can to avoid getting sick all over his shoes, throwing up.

“ _It’s okay. It’s alright. You’ll be fine. You’re fine, probie…_ ” Lucifer soothes and Cas grits out something enraged in Russian. Honestly, Cas scares him right now.

“Cas, buddy, you okay? Babe?” Dean probes carefully and dries his mouth. 

“ _I’ll end them. I’ll end **all** of them!_ ”

Luce chuckles. “ _Better not talk to him, fledgeling. He’s too angry to be talkative._ ”

“Got it.” Dean hears voices and sidesteps away from the place he threw up, crouching down in the darkness, aiming his gun in the direction of the open door.

A silhouette of a gun and a small outline of the side of someone’s head appears in the doorway. This guy’s more careful. Dean holds his breath. The guy lights a flashlight, takes a quick step into the room, crouched down, sweeping along the darkness with the flashlight, his back to Dean for half a beat. Dean shoots. The flashlight clatters to the ground and the guy topples. Another guy enters through the closed door Dean had come from, Dean pulls the trigger again, missing this time as the guy ducks out of the way. 

Dean runs over to the fallen man with the flashlight. The guy he’d shot at comes back in, firing at Dean’s previous position. This time Dean doesn’t miss. “Shit. It’s like a fucking video game,” he mutters.

“ _I dare you to beat Castiel’s high score,_ ” Luce whispers with amusement.

Dean smiles tensely and waits for a beat before he picks up the fallen guy’s gun and shuts off the flashlight, taking it just in case. Then he makes his way over to the next fallen man, steals his gun too and peeks out into the corridor, mouth dry and nerves taunt. He can’t see anyone and darts outside before the next batch of men comes to explore why there was gunfire.

* * *

It feels like the journey from one side of the building to the other takes hours. Of course, it doesn’t. It’s the metallic tang of fear and suspense skewing his perception of time. He’s relieved when he finally finds the corridor where some lamps are broken, creating gaps of darkness, and some flicker inconsistently.

An ambush has him emptying two out of three guns, feeling slightly panicky, aware he’s only got two more bullets, pushing the thought aside, that two more men are dead at his hand. He crouches down in a doorway, trying not to breathe too loudly, looking up and down the corridor, scrutinizing the two bodies for movement. “65 more feet and I’ll be there. I’m in the second corridor,” he whispers.

There’s no answer.

The shadows seem to move in the flickering lights, living a life of their own. But no matter how much he strains his eyes he can’t see anything that seems to be organic life. Seeing no one, he gets to his feet. He starts moving, every nerve a livewire, heart thump-thump-thumping, creating a whooshing in his ears. He turns his head to glance backward and catches a movement just behind his back.

He spins around with a yelp, firing his gun, but the man is far too close, delivering a sweeping kick that takes Dean’s legs from under him and makes his bullet hit the ceiling instead of the man. Dean lands on his back, air punched out of him, and rolls to the side, sitting up in the same motion. The man follows, kicking at his head. Dean ducks and raises his arm to block. The kick changes direction and takes him in the ribs under his raised arm. Dean rolls away, into one of the dark patches, closely followed by his assailant. 

_Get up! Get up! Get up!_

Rule number one in any street fight is to get up onto your feet. Never _ever_ remain on the ground. There’s no honour, no stopping, when your opponent is down in a street fight.

For a beat both of them are within a square of total darkness, and the only thing that catches any light is his opponent's eyes, shining blue above him. It’s fucking terrifying. Dean gets to his feet only to catch another kick in his midriff, sending him flying out of the darkness.

This time he lands better and rolls up on his feet and into a shooting position. His lungs scream in anguish and need for air. He’s yet to suck in that painful first breath since he got the wind knocked out of him. He holds his shot though. He only has one bullet left.

His opponent steps out of the darkness, gun raised.

Dean sucks in a startled breath. It hurthurthurts when his empty lungs expand again. “Mikey,” he grits out and lowers his gun, backpedalling.

“You should have stayed in the room,” Michael informs him and lowers his gun before he moves.

Michael’s frighteningly fast. He strikes like a snake, light on his feet, quick to evade, arms, legs a flurry, dancing out of range, powerful punches and kicks leaving bruises in their wake.

Dean would like to say he gives as good as he gets. That’s not true. He blocks and parries best as he can. He gets a couple of solid hits with fists and elbows. He’s got height and strength advantage, sending Michael staggering.

“Boss, do you need h―”

Dean twists around to where the voice comes from, sacrificing vigilance towards Michael to fire his gun.

The henchman crumples backwards and falls to the floor, in the same moment Dean’s head receives a jarring hit. A kick in the bend of his knee takes him to the floor.

He raises his hand to block a punch. Michael grabs him by the wrist and jerks, elbowing him in the face. Momentarily stunned, he’s thrown against the wall, gets one arm twisted behind his back and the other banged against the wall until he drops the gun.

Michael kicks the gun out of range and lets go of him. Dean twists around to find that Michael’s retreated to the other wall, drawn his gun and pointed it at him.

Dean deflates and sinks to the floor, back against the wall.

“Who are you?” Michael demands when it’s apparent that Dean isn’t going to attack. “You’re no ordinary working class hero.”

Dean pants, pain and aches riddling him everywhere. Michael’s got a nose bleed. He wears it like a rosetta, as pretty with it as without. Dean chuckles defeatedly. “You obviously never hang with the working class or you wouldn’t say that. Hey, you got a bag of frozen peas or something for my cheek? It’s swelling, I think.”

“You should have stayed in the room. If you had, we could have worked something out that allowed you to live. But now?” Michael shakes his head determinedly. “You've cost me too much.”

His finger shifts towards the trigger. 

Dean holds his breath. 

There's a sound of a gun with a silencer being fired, a spark of metal hitting metal on the ceiling lamp fixture on Dean's side of the corridor― 

Michael sucks in a startled breath and drops his gun with a pained hiss.

Cas steps out of the exit corridor and takes up position in the middle of the corridor, legs wide apart, neck slightly bent, mouth a thin line of fury, gaze a harbinger of death.

_Jeezus fucking Christ! He ricocheted that bullet like he was playing pool, shooting it out of Michael’s hand._

“Boom, pregnant…” Dean mutters, slack-jawed, wide-eyed, awed, thrilled.

Michael’s eyes widen in dismay for a beat, then his face shutters to a cold, hard mask to match Cas’. “You’re working for Zack now, little brother?” he asks, a tone of incredulity creeping into his voice.

“Step away from my boyfriend, Micha.”

“Your boyf―” Michael’s gaze snaps towards Dean.

Dean shrugs apologetically and gives him a sheepish smile. “Yeah… that would be ‘babe’. Sorry ‘bout that.”

Michael blinks at him, expression unreadable. He looks back at Cas and pulls another gun from under his suit jacket, then takes a couple of steps in Cas’ direction, blocking him from Dean. “No. You traitorous little bitch. Walk away now, Cas, and I’ll let you both live, but you aren’t getting him back.”

_What’s that supposed to mean? What’s he planning to do with me then?_

Cas raises his gun. “Don’t force me to shoot you, Micha. I’m not letting you win this one.”  
Dean pushes himself to a standing position, ignored by both brothers. Cas looks so fucking badass it makes Dean weak in the knees, gut twisting with worry at the same time. He’s been lying to himself when he’s thought he wanted someone stable, someone normal, working 9 to 5. How the fuck could he think he wanted that when Cas― 

When Cas exists, period. Nevermind that he’s scared shitless at the moment. These two guys love each other and are now facing off. For his sake? It can’t be. Not like that, no. But Cas stands there, facing off his brother to save Dean.

Dean can’t fucking have that. Nope. Not on his watch. It’s like if he has to face off with Sam. It’s not fair and not okay.

Lucifer steps out of the corridor too, calm as a kitten, putting Cas behind him. The fucking retard isn’t even holding a gun. “Stop this, Micha.”

Michael’s resolve wavers, real pain is etched across his face. “You too, Luci?” There’s heartbreak there. Real pain overshadowing the dismay he’d briefly shown at seeing Cas.

“Join us, Micha. You don’t have to do this. Leave this sinking ship behind and be free. Just walk off the chessboard with us. Isn’t losing one brother bad enough?” Behind Luce, Cas takes a step to the side. Luci follows remaining firmly in the way. He can talk all he wants about not sacrificing oneself but he’s full of shit.

“I can’t. Father gave me orders before he died. I―”

“Dad’s dead.” Blunt to the point of cruelty. Cas isn’t a diplomat. Duly noted.

“You can be free, Micha,” Luce coos softly. “Come with us. We’ll create our own future.”

Dean takes the stolen flashlight out of his pocket with his heart jackhammering. This is all going to hell. He won’t stand for that.

There’s a multitude of expressions flitting over his face and sticks on dark, pained resolve. “No.” Michael aims his gun at Lucifer. “I love you, little brother, and I don’t want this any more than you do, but father decreed―”

Dean brings down the flashlight full force on Michael’s head. 

He crumples, Dean barely catches him before he hits the floor. He grabs a gun, then Michael by the collar and drags him into a darkened room, puts him out of immediate eyesight from anyone who’d enter, and stuffs the gun beside him after having put him in recovery position. If Michael’s men find him passed out, Dean doesn’t trust them not to turn on him. Before he leaves him he whispers “My real name is Dean,” into his ear. Then he gets up and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

He’s barely out before he’s pummeled into the wall by Cas, being kissed to the inch of his life, his T-shirt fisted in an almost strangling grip. “You’re mine, are you not?” Cas asks when he comes up for air. Eyes mad wide desperate demanding.

“Yeah. I’m yours.”

Another kiss. Dean’s barely aware of his surroundings, all dizzy and weak-kneed as Cas pushes up, frantically trying to get as close as possible. Cas raises his arm to the side and pulls the trigger, a man further down the corridor crumbles. Dean could have sworn Cas wasn’t even looking. “Holy shit, Cas.” Butterflies thrilling all over. He’s the swooning maid in a bodice-ripper, Cas, his refined caveman, responding with a growled, guttural sound, sucking at his lips like he’s starving for it.

“Alright, lovebirds. It isn’t over yet and we need to get out,” Luce informs them and grabs Cas by the back of his collar to haul him off and drag him towards the exit. “Sam’s waiting outside.”

Cas wraps his hand around Dean’s uninjured wrist and starts pulling him along, following Lucifer to the right corridor. 

“ _Holy fucking Hell!_ ”

There’s at least ten dead in the corridor they turn into, right outside of the exit. 

Lucifer chuckles. “Indeed. Did I not tell you Cas had a jealous tantrum? He did. It’s been bloody. And for once he doesn’t have to clean it up by himself,” he muses.

Dean steps over a corpse with trepidation.

“Stay back,” Cas orders and holds a hand out to stop Dean, warm against his chest. Dean’s overwhelmed. Content to have the Angelus take lead on this. 

Dean picks up a gun from a fallen foe and checks it for bullets. He turns to guard their rear as Luce and Cas open the door to the staircase and step through, firing several shots.

“Clear.”

Dean follows. Twice more they have to stop to exchange gun fire, but Dean doesn’t have to fire his gun once. Cas is frighteningly accurate, aiming for, and more importantly, _hitting_ fucking anyone who comes at them, right in the head. On the third storey down Luce breaks the glass for a wall mounted fire alarm button and hits it. It starts blaring, red lights lighting up in the bannisters, white dotted lights on each step, but it doesn’t turn dark like it had on the upper floors. They continue down at speed, but now other people start piling out from the floors, aiming to reach the ground floor. The mobsters would have to sift through hundreds of civilians to find them if they come in pursuit. Dean has to abandon his gun before they mingle with the people piling into the stairwell. He can’t hide it wearing only a tight T-shirt and pants. Cas and Luce holster theirs.

“Is the vault burning?” Dean whispers when Luce is close enough to hear.

“Mhm. And thank you, Mav, for what you did back there. I love Micha, and would have hated to see it turn violent.”

“I know. That’s why I did it.”

Cas’ grip on Dean’s wrist is vice-like. He checks people out of the way, making sure they get down swiftly. If anyone has objections it dies on their tongue when they see his look of death and Dean’s bloodied appearance.

Out on the street they turn left. They can hear sirens from fire engines and possible police cars coming closer. Dean gets dragged to a Grand Cherokee Jeep idling nearby and is swung so his back hits its side. Cas crowds up on him, boxes him in with his arms and pins him in spot with his blue eyes aflame. “Would you rather have stayed with _him_?” Cas demands.

“Of course not, babe. I lo _mbff_!” Cas hot lips are on him, careless for his injuries or that anyone can see. A leg is pushed between Dean’s, giving friction to Dean’s rapidly waking downstairs buddy. A hand buried in his hair, the other one groping, finding his ass, squeezing. Dean whimpers into the kiss, scrambles for handhold on Cas’ back. 

Lucifer laughs but Dean barely hears it. He’s too focused on Cas’ scent, his heat, his hands, his everything. Luce opens the backseat door and gives them a shove. “Get in.”

Cas grabs Dean under his buttocks and― _Oh hell, he’s lifting me! Yep. Yep, this is happening. Fuck me._

Dean wraps his legs around Cas to help hold himself up and is promptly carried into the car. Cas crawls over him, covering him with his body. Luce slams the door behind them, still laughing. Cas’ lips attach to Dean’s throat, sucks a mark, decides that’s not enough and bites down. Dean gasps and arches his back, rolls his hips to find that Cas is fully hard.

“Jesus Christ, you guys! Not in the _car_!” Sam protests from the driver’s seat as Luce gets in.

“Oh, let them, Sammy. Your brother nearly got killed. You never had adrenaline fuelled, near-death-experience sex?” Luce grins and twists around so he can watch Dean and Cas in the backseat while Sam peels out of parking into the street.

“No I haven’t! And I don’t want to watch my brother have it either!”

Lucifer laughs in delight and leers at the backseat. “One day, we’ll have to change that, Sammy dear.”

Dean couldn’t care less. “Are you mine, Dean?” Cas growls and laves at the mark he left on Dean’s throat.

“ _Yes._ ”

“Do you belong to me?”

“ _Yes._ ”

Cas runs his tongue over the bleeding wound on Dean’s cheek like he’s trying to wash him clean. “Can I keep you?”

“ _Yes._ ”

There’s no sanity in this. No sanity in the burning blue gaze mesmerizing Dean with its fury. No sanity in the electricity and want taking over Dean, in the way his heart grows two sizes from the sheer force of Castiel’s needy craving for him. It’s irrational how Cas’ mouth tastes ten times better flavoured by the coppery taste of Dean’s own blood, how every ache and pain appears to vaporize under Cas’ greedy touch. 

Nobody should look so incredibly sexy when sitting up, shrugging out of a suit jacket to reveal two gun holsters over a waistcoat. “Cas, please…” Dean begs and reaches for him.

Cas holds out a hand towards the front seat. “Luce, Lilith,” he demands without taking his eyes off Dean.

Luce slaps his knife into Cas’ hand. Normally Dean would give Lucifer shit for naming his knife, but the next breath Cas’ has cut a wedge in the collar of Dean’s T-shirt just as the car makes a sharp turn and Dean daren’t breath when he feels the cold steel nick his throat. Cas slaps the knife back in Lucifer’s hand, grabs Dean’s collar with both hands and _rips_.

“Holy shit!” Dean keens while Sam whines ‘ _Fucking hell,_ ’ in the driver’s seat.

Cas rips Dean’s shirt open all the way down and lays down to kiss the exposed skin, bruised from the fight with Michael. His mouth is all teeth and tongue and Dean’s fucking helplessly lost to it. “ _Yesyesyes, Cas, gimme!_ ” Dean demands breathlessly, fisting brown locks in his hands to have something to stabilize him. Noises―needy, wanton, desperate―escape Dean’s lips without being filtered by his brain. Cas fumbles Dean’s belt and zipper open, shamelessly pulling out his dick, massaging it with his hand while he kissbites his way down there. He sucks and nips, leaving his claim in marks for anyone to see.

“Luce, will you _stop_ perving on them! They’re our brothers!” Sam slaps Lucifer’s shoulder, staring angrily at the road.

Luce chuckles and makes no move to stop watching the backseat activities. “Only one of them is, and it’s not him I’m watching.”

It’s enough to draw Dean’s attention to the front seat. Lucifer meets his gaze unabashedly. No shame. As if this couldn’t get any hotter. Dean’s attitude towards public sex may have something to do with how much he enjoys being watched. (Yep, it definitely does.) As long as a possible watcher gets that they can look but not touch, he’s more than fine with it. Cas is the one who’ll seek privacy. Normally. When Cas isn’t set on devouring him.

Dean bites his lip over a moan when he’s engulfed by a hot, eager mouth.

Lucifer’s eyes spark with mischief. He bites his lip too. If Dean knows him as well as he thinks he does about this, Luce is withholding encouraging praise that could spark another bout of jealousy from Cas.

Dean closes his eyes and pulls at Cas’ hair. “Fuck, _Cas_. Shit that feels good!”

Cas licks and sucks, head bobbing up and down, burying his nose in the hair at the base of Dean’s dick, then up to lick the slit, and down again, moving his tongue back and forth pressed against the underside of Dean’s cock.

Dean opens his eyes to look down at Cas. Lips swollen spread wide around Dean’s cock, eyes glossy and intense, hair a mess between Dean’s hands, aviators still precariously holding onto the locks beneath Dean’s grip. “Oh, fuck. Cas, I’m gonna come if you don’t―”

Cas pulls off with a filthy _pop_ , sits up to open his fly and pull himself out. He licks his hand and lies down on top of Dean, grabbing both of them in his hand, supporting himself on an elbow to have room to stroke them both. He seeks out Dean’s lips for a kiss. “Mine?” he mumbles into the kiss.

“ _Yes._ ”

“Mine.”

“Yes, yes, yes, Cas. I’m yours!”

“ _Mine!_ ” Cas speeds up his strokes, glide slick from saliva and precome. Dean was close before, now he tips over with a long moan, spilling all over his bare stomach and Cas hand. Cas keeps stroking until Dean whines and jerks from oversensitivity, then he too comes, panting wetly on Dean’s throat.

“Bravo,” Lucifer chirps and turns back around to face the road. Sam punches him hard on the arm, but the fucker just laughs.

Cas lies still on top of Dean until their breathing starts evening out. The backseat in this car is roomy, but it’s still awkward and cramped. Dean starts feeling his aches again, realising how uncomfortably he’s lying. He looks at Cas. At some point, while they’d been lying like this, Dean’s managed to nudge Cas’ glasses out of his hair to fall down onto his face, skewed by their lying position. Dean smiles lazily at him. “Hey, babe…” he murmurs.

Cas lifts his head and supports his weight and answers the smile with one of his own. His cheek is smeared with Dean’s blood. “Hello, Dean.”

“I lied to you,” Dean confesses.

“Oh?” Cas’ eyebrows dip under his aviators in a frown.

Dean’s smile grows wider. “The first time we had sex. You asked if it was too early to say you love me. I said yes. I loved you too. Already back then, I loved you. I love you more now, and I will love you, even more, tomorrow, in a week, in a year.”

Cas’ grins one of those magnificent gummy ones that makes Dean’s belly do odd flip-flops. Even now, two weeks into their relationship, Cas blushes, gorgeous cheeks heating up. 

Adorable badass psycho killer. Dean’s so fucked up on him. 

“Well, that’s sweet,” Luce comments from the front.

“For the record, I hate _all_ of you,” Sam counters grumpily.

Cas caresses Dean’s hair with a hand. “I love you too, Dean Winchester.”

“Yeah. I got that.” Dean reaches out to correct the glasses so they’re not sitting askew. For once they don’t bother Dean. They suit Cas, and Dean knows what his eyes would look like if he removed them. Soft. Adoring. Sated. “Sorry for making a mess of your waist coat.” 

“I have more of them. You’re welcome to spill your seed over each and every one of them.”

Dean chuckles. 

_Challenge accepted…_

* * *


	20. EPILOGUE - TROPICAL SUNRISE...

* * *

**EPILOGUE - TROPICAL SUNRISE...**

* * *

When the Angelus brothers planned the heist they’d not accounted for two more people, and as such the hideaway bungalow only has two bedrooms. Sam graciously offers to share with Luce so Cas and Dean can sleep together. Dean’s not overjoyed. He isn’t. There’s a perfectly good couch in the living room. Only, forcing Sam to sleep on it to avoid Luce getting ideas isn’t fair either. They’re all adults over here, right? Right.

So now they live in a large bungalow on stilts, in the middle of a long wooden bridge out in the water. The island is small, comprised of mostly sandy beach and a copse of trees in the middle, not big enough to be called a forest. The island is all theirs, but they have a boat, and the closest island with people on is only minutes away, a bit further if you want a nice restaurant or to restock food and other necessities.

The bungalow is surprisingly modern and has all the modern comforts of a good kitchen, as well as kickass internet and electricity. How they managed that on a remote island in the Maldives, Dean will never know, but he’s not complaining. The privacy is impeccable, so half the time when they go for a swim they don’t bother with clothes. 

Getting Cas to swim is… difficult. Turns out that mad badass no-fear Castiel Angelus is afraid of sharks. Afraid enough that it borderlines on phobia. It’s somehow comforting to know Cas isn’t immune to fear. (Even when it is irrational.) There _are_ sharks in the water, but only small reef sharks and other small species. To see larger ones they have to go scuba diving (Awesome! One even lets Dean pet its belly like a dog.) while Cas stubbornly waits in the boat.

They’d successfully stolen $280.000.000. 

They’d kept $4.000.000, one mil per person. Dean almost felt like crying about it, but he’s not going to be the guy that demands to keep 70 when everyone else keeps 1. A mil is still a lot of money. Especially since the Angelus brothers appear to be sitting on substantial riches of their own already and take care of the Winchesters’ needs. So instead of moping Dean leeches off Sam’s pure joy that the rest of the money goes to buying forests, lakes, and islands around the world to protect nature and wildlife. Save the trees, save the bees, and all that shit.

So until further notice, they’re holed up in a tropical paradise, laying low, and in Dean’s case also healing.

* * *

Dean stares at the frozen picture on the TV, mouth dry. “Jeezus fuck.”

“Mmmh. You’ve got to appreciate Micha’s artistic abilities,” Luce purrs. Dean gives him a dubious look, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck prick. Lucifer’s expression is one of pleasure, as if he’s truly watching a piece of gorgeous art - not a leaked crime scene photo of one of the most gruesome murders Dean’s seen outside of movies. 

“M-Mikey did that?”

The faint stutter makes Luce turn his head to scrutinize Dean with faint amusement. He twists on the couch to face Dean, arm casually slung over the backrest. “Of course not. You said so yourself - ‘Mikey’ does not exist. Michael did that to warn anyone thinking to challenge him, and it’s a testament to your ability to lie. You should be proud of yourself. He believed you when you said you were working for Zachariah. This magnificent, cautionary installation would not exist if it wasn’t for your honeyed tongue.”

Dean’s eyes are drawn back to the screen where Luce paused the morning news broadcast. Zachariah’s crucified to the wall, gutted like a fish, entrails wrapped like a grisly tie around his neck and three pairs of wings smear-painted on the wall behind him. The network hadn’t bothered blurring the picture like the more respectable networks would, and that’s exactly why Luce tunes into this channel every morning - their shameless gorging in violent and macabre reality. Hashtag NoFilter. Dean touches the pendant he has hanging around his neck. It’s the half of a heart, the twin hanging around Cas’ neck. Cas remains undeterred in his cheesy textbook romanticism. “I think I’m gonna be sick…”

Lucifer giggles. “Weak, Maverick. Don’t you see the beauty in it? It’s only been two days since all charges against Micha were dropped and he walked out a free man, giving polite interviews to the vultures with that perfect smile of his. And while the masses adore him and believe him a respectable man and a victim, he goes straight behind their backs to deliver this message to our peers. ‘ _Don’t fuck with me_.’” Luce makes a humming sound of pleasure. “The Garrison empire crumbles to dust, new shootouts amongst the maggot expendables every day. How many of their operations have the FBI and CIA found out about and disrupted by now? And it’s only been a couple of weeks. In the midst of all this is Micha, _thriving_ , growing stronger while the others falter. He’ll be the last man standing, carving a new empire that’s his alone. The next generation, unhampered by the old gods.” Lucifer’s dreamy smile unnerves Dean. He looks like he’d want nothing more than to take his place as Micha’s second.

“Dude. You have a fucked up relationship with your brother.” Dean cringes inwardly, sending another side-eyed glance at the picture on the screen that gives Luce the look of someone who’s indulging an X-rated romantic fantasy.

Lucifer laughs, carefree and relaxed. “You’re the one to talk. Maybe you should take a look at your own relationship to Sam. You’re practically fused together at the hip.” He reaches out and hooks his arm around Dean’s neck, pulling him to his side so Dean’s coffee sloshes all over his hand.

“Hey! Let go of me, you ass! I’m not your cuddlebug,” Dean protests, haphazardly putting his coffee down on the living room table to try to squirm out of Lucifer’s grip.

No use. Luce grins, full of mischief, and grabs onto him with his other hand too, locking him in what’s partially a hug, partially a wrestling grip. “Micha’s Aaron Burr to our Hamilton, probie. ‘Talk less, smile more. Don’t let them know what you’re against and what you’re for’,” he quotes. “...But when push comes to shove he won’t hesitate to strike. They never see him coming. You’d admire him as much as I do if you knew him,” he purrs.

“Let go of me, you freak!” Dean gives up on trying to squirm loose and punches Luce in the belly instead.

“ _Ouff._ ”

The grip loosens. Dean’s triumphant.

For about half a second.

Then Luce digs his fingers into Dean’s sides, just under the ribs where he’s mortally ticklish.

Dean squeals and kicks out, sending the table tipping over with a crash, coffee mugs shattering. His attempt to get away, followed by Luce, results in both of them tumbling over the back of the couch.

The doors to the bedrooms are flung open almost simultaneously, both Sam and Cas storming out with guns drawn, fearing the worst.

Dean’s squirming, kicking, flailing, trying to dislodge Lucifer who’s straddling him, tickling relentlessly. “ _Cas! Heeeelp!_ ”

Cas and Sam lower their guns. Cas, gloriously naked save for the half-heart necklace, gives them a dark look. “It’s 6 AM, Dean. If you’re not dying, you’re on your own for another four hours.” With that, he turns on his heel and slams the bedroom door behind him.

“Sam?” Dean begs, pleading with his brother. Luce stills, locking Dean’s arms down, staring at Sam with a devilish grin, waiting for his answer.

Sam runs a tired hand over his face and sighs. “Look. Guys. Not that I’m not happy that you two have your daily moment of male bonding. It’s nice. That, that you get along a few hours each day. Really. It is. But must you do it so early in the morning? Not to mention, so _loudly_? Yesterday it was an impromptu rendition of Hamilton’s ‘My Shot’ with a drum solo on the pots in the kitchen. The day before that it was, what? A game of Jenga, but with fucking _furniture_? And before that―” Sam cuts off and shakes his head. “Seriously. Some of us are trying to sleep. We shouldn’t have to suffer just because you two are transformed into 5-year-olds at daybreak, okay?”

“So… you’re not helping?” Dean probes innocently.

“ _No_. I’m not helping. You should clean up and take your ruckus _outside_ ,” Sam scolds irritably. “Good night. I’m going back to bed.” With that he turns to go back to the bedroom, stopping mid-stride when he spots the frozen image on the TV. “Eww. Gross. I didn’t need to see that before going to sleep.”

“It’s art, Sammy. _Art_ ,” Luce teases with a smirk.

“You’re disgusting,” Sam states with a grimace of distaste.

“Better up,” Dean chirps in, “It’s Zachariah.”

Sam looks at the image for a moment, then his face sets into a grim mask. “ _Good._ Now, clean up, and _shut up_.” He turns around and closes the door after himself. Sam’s vengeful blood thirst never cease to surprise Dean.

Dean and Luce giggle. “My little brother is as fucked in the head as you are.”

“You’ll get there, tyro.”

“Fuck you,” Dean grins, unoffended. “Get off me and clean up.”

“Nu-uh-uh. You made the mess, you clean up.”

“Bullshit. You made me make the mess, _you_ clean up.”

“Hmmm. I’ll race you for it. Last one to reach the drop cliff has to clean up.”

“You’re on!”

Luce lets go and pulls his shirt off in the same motion as he stands up. Dean’s on his feet only a beat behind, but kicks his pants off before Luce can. By the time they’ve run out of the bungalow and reached the end of the dock they’re both naked, diving into the crystal clear water side by side, swimming towards the cliff protruding out of the water just before the underwater drop down to a deep chasm.

Dean’s heaving himself onto the rock when Luce first makes contact with it, and Dean cackles at his curses. This too is standard by now. They’ll make a mess, compete in some way about who has to clean it up, and end up helping each other out anyway.

They sit on the rock for a while, letting the rising sun dry them off, watching the fish that swim in the water. A big yellow one nibbles curiously at Dean’s submerged toes, making him giggle.

Sam is right. Between 5:30 and 9 or 10 AM Luce and Dean get along famously. According to Sam’s theory, they wake up to have a conference about how to best annoy their brothers, which is so not true. They just wake up full of energy, ready to face the day. And since there’s no work needed doing, Luce prepares coffee for them while Dean makes breakfast. They watch the news then talk and, well… play. There’s no other word for it, whatever they get up to. Around 10 Sam and Cas stir and then Dean will start getting annoyed at Luce for putting moves on Sam or in other ways being a douche. But the first hours of wakefulness Dean’s yet to remember that he doesn’t like the guy.

Dean looks out over the peaceful sea, admiring the morning colours with a soft smile. He wishes Cas was here with him. Cas has spent a couple of sunrises with him and in a splendid mood to boot. Only, that are the days Cas hasn't gone to bed at all. Cas does that. Either he’ll get up to sit with his laptop after Dean’s fallen asleep, or he can lie awake and just creepy-ass stare at Dean as if he’s afraid he’ll disappear at any moment.

“You're doing it again,” Luce singsongs.

“Doing what?”

“Mooning over my little brother. Christ. You two are so disgustingly sweet I'm developing diabetes. Seriously, Dean, he's _right there_ ,” Luce teases with faux frustration and gestures behind them towards the bungalow. 

“Hey, I resent that. And for the record, that thing currently in my bed isn't remotely human, won't be for hours and added coffee, and can't really be referred to as Cas.”

They share a conspiratorial snigger.

“Lucky for you, you can sit here and enjoy the view with the next best thing.” Luce smirks. “Scratch that. The _better_ thing― _yelp!_ ” Dean pushes him off the cliff into the deepwater drop.

* * *

Dean's leaning against the kitchen counter, looking up at the small kitchen TV where the news broadcast shows footage of Uriel Angelus being led from his home in handcuffs. “ _The scandals surrounding Garrison Corp keep multiplying. Last night Uriel Angelus was arrested in his home, suspected of…_ ”

Strong arms wrap around him from behind, Cas’ warm chest press against his back, soft lips against his shoulder. “Don’t you get tired of watching the news?” Cas mumbles.

“Not really. You think Uriel will go to jail?”

“Most definitely. For a considerable amount of time.”

Dean turns around in Cas’ embrace to wrap his own arms around him. “Then maybe that’s enough of a revenge for dad…”

Cas tilts his head and squints at him. “Possibly…” he answers like he doesn’t believe it. “Dean… Luce and I have been talking…”

“Oh, great. What did I do now?”

“No. I―” Cas chuckles and places a kiss on Dean’s collarbone. He takes Dean’s hand and tugs, leading him outside. Dean follows easily, fingers interlaced with Cas’. “It’s been months. I’m giving daily lessons to Sam, and we are orchestrating cyber attacks to take down businesses who plague the environment with disregard for longevity―”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” They stroll slowly along the sun warm wooden bridge. Small waves lap and cluck at the poles holding it up, the ocean a marvel of turquoise and blue hues.

Cas frowns at the interruption and goes on undeterred. “He’s happy with that, and getting quite adept at hacking and researching under my tutelage.”

“So?”

“You’ve built a boat from scratch, then an engine for it, also from scratch. And now Luce tells me you’ve begun to take measurements to build an extra room for the bungalow.” They stop at the end of the bridge, the small boat Dean built bobbing from its mooring.

“Yeeeah….?” Dean has no idea where this is going.

“Sam told me you borrowed his laptop to research how to make glass, because you wanted the floor in the new room to be made of glass.”

“Uh-huh? It would be cool, wouldn’t it? To be able to see the fishes below?”

“We could just have the necessary glass delivered, you know.”

“Yeah, but…” Dean averts his gaze. He doesn’t know how to answer. He knows that. They might be on an island in the middle of nowhere, but getting supplies here hasn’t been a problem. Just like taking the boat to any of the surrounding islands to party and meet people at the resorts hasn’t been a problem. 

Cas tilts his head. “Dean. Are you happy?”

Dean’s gaze snaps back to Cas. “Of course. I’m happy, Cas. I’m really happy. Very happy. I’m―”

“―Gnawing your leg off like a badger in a bear trap,” Cas finishes for him with a concerned but affectionate look. “And I’m foolish for not having seen it until Luci pointed it out. But then again, as an Arch, it’s part of his job description to know that all the cogs in his clockwork are functioning. I think I ought to have understood what was going on when you started cleaning our guns daily, running and swimming laps around the island, and double checking our emergency bags. But I thought it was just part of who you are.”

“It is.”

Cas shakes his head. “No. You’re not content with this quiet life. I might err, but would you not rather do a job, using the skills you've built up over the years, than lean back to watch the continued outfall of our last heist?”

Dean squirms internally and rubs his neck. “You’re content like this. You all are.”

“Pardon me, but that was not the question.”

“Fine. Yes. Yeah, I’d rather be out there raising hell. Don’t get me wrong, babe. I love it here and it feels like home. Like Sam and I finally have a _real_ home. But, like, a home to come back to, if you feel me?”

Cas’ lips quirk upwards in the corners. “I do. And in that case, there are two missions we could embark on. One in South Africa, that is an environmental quest. And the other would lead us back to the States, to hit one of the Garrison branches that broke free, and are currently giving Micha a headache.”

“You’re gonna help him?”

“Not to _his_ knowledge. But I still love my brother and wish to see him succeed in all his endeavours, as long as those endeavours don’t pertain to you.”

Dean chuckles, warmth spreading through his chest. “I’m up for both. We can talk with the others at dinner tonight, okay?”

Cas gives a satisfied nod, like it’s already settled. For a while they just stand there, looking out over the ocean, breathing in the scent of saltwater and freedom. Dean feels ten times lighter. Like a weight he didn’t know he’d been carrying has been lifted. The four of them had settled in at this tropical paradise and made themselves a home, become an unlikely family. There’s no white picket fence, but there have been barbecues, drinking beer and watching sports. There’s been cooking, fishing, and Dean’s been struggling through lessons in Russian on Duolingo to the mirth of the Angelus brothers. (Who consider themselves Americans. Apparently, they’re the fourth generation to be born in the US, so not Russian mobsters after all. Whatever.) It’s been calm. Without hardships. Months without worries but with great sex and romance. And something discontent had been growing in Dean, something he’s tried to stifle and deny. Because he doesn’t want to _want_ uncertainty, danger, and action. But he’s missed it. And knowing he’ll soon have a purpose again excites him.

Cas clears his throat and draws Dean’s attention. “There’s… there’s something else I’ve been wanting to ask.” Cas gaze flicks to Dean’s, then away, then back again. He’s nervous.

“Yeah?”

“As you know, being with me, living the life we lead… we can never truly, hrm…” Cas swallows thickly, cheeks heating up. “I… we have to assume fake identities and change them from time to time. We can’t leave a paper trail and do things legally like most people…” Cas shifts, holds Dean’s hand with both of his, palms getting sweaty. Dean’s heart starts thumping faster, half in trepidation, half in elated anticipation.

“Go on...” Dean urges when Cas seems to lose his nerve.

Cas lets go of Dean’s hand to take something out of the pocket of his Bermuda shorts. He almost looks frightened when he goes down on one knee in front of Dean, blue eyes wide and vulnerable. Dean forgets how to breathe when Cas holds out the little box and opens it with trembling fingers. Inside, there are two small rings. “Dean. I love you. I’ve been wanting to ask, if you could consider, um…” Cas face is turning crimson, heat creeping down his chest, “pledging your love to me, and I to you, in an unofficial ceremony akin to what conventionally would be a marriage, had we had the luxury of convention.” Cas finishes with a dry swallow, staring up at Dean as if there’s an actual possibility that he’ll say no. 

Dean’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt, eyes tearing up because he’s a fucking sap. “Shit, you’re fucked up. Are those _earrings_?”

Cas tilts his head uncertainly. “Yes?”

“Fuck yeah, Cas. Fuck yeah, I’ll not-marry you!” 

Cas smile is like a sunrise, bright, beautiful. Surprised, of all things. “You will?” He gets to his feet and Dean throws his arms around him, clinging close, kissing him, tasting that sweet, awed mouth. They almost over-balance and only luck (and possibly Cas’ irrational fear of tiny reef sharks) keeps them from toppling into the water. “You do,” Cas states when Dean lets him come up for air. His expression is that of a child full of wonder. 

“I do. But why the hell earrings?” Dean grins, blinking through tears. Chest expanding to fit the swell of his heart.

“I shot a hole in your ear. It seemed prudent that I make a hole in mine too, to pay my dues.”

Dean laughs and buries his nose in Cas’ hair. “God, you’re such an idiot. It’s perfect. Corny. I love it. We’ll be like Mr. and Mr. Smith.”

“I was thinking Winchester, if you don’t mind.”

Crazy joy giggles up from deep inside of Dean. “It’s from a mov― Nevermind. Castiel Winchester. I want nothing more. Fuck, I love you!” Cas might never get Dean’s pop culture references. Dean couldn’t care less.

* * *

Later, after lovemaking and lots of embarrassing lovey dovey admissions Dean goes in search of Sam to tell him the news of his engagement. 

He hears Sam before he sees him. Voices coming from the copse of trees in the middle of the island.

“...Yes, Sir.”

“Good boy,” Luce purrs. “And will you do exactly as you’re told, Sammy?”

“Yes, Sir. _Always_ …” Sam’s voice is breathless, making Dean frown with a creeping feeling in his belly.

Dean rounds a couple of bushes and stops mid-stride when he spots them. Sam’s pressed up against a tree, shirtless and flushed, hands on Lucifer’s (thankfully clothed) hips, eyes closed, throat bared to the older man’s mouth. Lucifer’s hands grip Sam’s ass, pressing them together. 

_Oh, **Hell** no!_

Dean’s mind goes black, eyesight red. “ _Son of a bitch!_ ”

Sam and Lucifer’s gazes snap Dean’s way, eyes big and horrified.

“Oh, _shit_.” Lucifer takes off running.

Dean chases after him. Sam calls out to him but he doesn’t hear it, too furious at Lucifer.

* * *

Dean’s had to endure days of Sam bitchfacing him, arguing that if Dean could date his best friend, Sam could date Dean’s. Which, wow. Okay. Lucifer is _so_ not Dean’s best friend, okay? Nope. Dean’s not listening to that. Nu-uh. End of discussion. That Lucifer seems to regard Dean’s protective ire primetime entertainment isn’t helping. Nor that Cas―the traitor―has known all along. But fine. Apparently, there’s no voting Luce off the island, so Dean can deal. Barely. And in a way, Luce respects Dean’s opinion on the matter. Not by swearing he’ll never touch Sam again or anything reasonable like that. But by only blocking, parrying, and evading when Dean caught up with him on the beach. Luce didn’t throw a single punch of his own, even if it earned him a black eye and a split lip. When Sam tore Dean off of Luce, Dean was unharmed but Luce bruised and bleeding from both mouth and nose, grinningly suggesting that they should spar together when Dean’s ‘sane’ again. Dean can appreciate that Luce respects him enough to take the beating. But still.

It takes a while for Dean to cool down, but it does happen. Which takes them to this moment.

The ceremony takes place on the beach two days before it’s time to departure back to the States. The sun is setting, painting everything pink and golden. Lucifer, clad in a white suit with a red rose in his buttonhole ministers it. (Archangel trumps priest anyway, right?) The black eye and split lip do nothing to quell Lucifer’s good humour, though. He smiles widely at Cas and Dean. 

Cas wears a beige waistcoat with gold embroidery over a simple white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A beige pair of tight pants is rolled up to just under his knees. Dean’s wearing a white shirt too, unbuttoned, chest bare underneath, sleeves rolled up, as is fitting for a beach not-quite-wedding, sand coloured knee long canvas pants to go. The two of them are barefoot, standing in the water facing each other, holding hands, smiling like doofuses.

“We’ve gathered here today, to seal the partnership of our brothers, in a pact of love, binding them in blood and spirits as one,” Lucifer begins. He goes on to hold a short speech that’s actually quite good, and adapted to leave religion and law out of it, but Dean barely hears it. He’s lost in the static buzz of excitement in his veins, adrift in how stunning Cas looks, how bright his smile is. It’s only when Luce starts addressing them personally that Dean starts paying attention.

“Castiel Angelus, do you take Dean Winchester, to love and to honour, in good times and in bad, through sickness and health, for as long as you both shall live, or until you no longer love him, in which case you’ll part peacefully and take any incriminating secrets about him to your grave because you’re not a worthless snitch?”

Sam elbows Luce in the ribs and hisses his name chastisingly. 

Dean withholds a snigger and beams at Cas when he says “I do,” unbothered by Lucifer’s dictation.

“Sam. Rings,” Luce commands.

Sam holds out the open box to Dean and Dean takes out Cas’ earring, the one with `D.W.` engraved on it, and puts it in Cas’ newly pierced ear, proud that his hands don’t tremble.

Lucifer directs himself to Dean. “Dean Winchester, do you take Castiel Angelus, to love and to honour, in good times and in bad, through sickness and health, for as long as you both shall live, or until you no longer love him, in which case you’ll part peacefully and take any incriminating secrets about him to your grave because you’re not a worthless snitch?”

“I do.”

Cas hands are warm against his skin when he takes the ring with `C.W.` engraved on it and puts it in the hole in Dean’s ear. Dean could never imagine that there would come a day he’d cherish the accident that put the hole there as much as he does now.

“Do both of you pledge your life and loyalty to each other, to be bound in blood as a token of the new family you bind yourself to?”

“We do.”

“Hold out your palms to me.” Cas and Dean holds out their palms to Lucifer, who brings out his small golden pocket knife (he’s named that one Azazel, because he’s a moron and a dork, that’s why) and cuts a shallow gash in each of their palms, then press their hands together to mix their blood. He ties a white piece of cloth around their joined hands afterwards. “I now declare you Mr. and Mr. Winchester. Dean, you may kiss the bride,” Luce says and gives them an impish grin.

“Oh, my god, you’re such a troll,” Sam complains, torn between smirking and being serious.

Dean chuckles and pulls Cas in for the kiss. It doesn’t bother him at all that this ritual is flavoured by Lucifer’s teasing. It fits. It’s _them_. It doesn’t matter if there’s a lighthearted tone to it all. The life they’ve chosen for themselves will balance on a knife’s edge between life and death in a way the life of an average person would not, so the humour is a necessity.

The four of them celebrate all night on the beach, drinking champagne and eating fresh fruit on a blanket littered with flowers and surrounded by tiki torches. Dean, trading close-eyed, languid kisses with Cas, listens with half an ear while Sam argues with Luce about his addition in the vows about falling out of love, scolding him for being unromantic. Luce counters that love can’t be forced, and should be recognised as beautiful and valid even if it doesn’t last a lifetime, and that respecting each other even when it dies, in honour of the love that once was, is important. Dean thinks that thought is sort of beautiful, even if he can’t see himself ever fall out of love with Cas.

At some point during the night Luce gets to his feet and drunk-staggers around the blanket to draw a big circle around them in the sand with a stick. Inside of it, he writes ‘my family’ with an inebriated, sappy look on his face, then plops himself down beside Sam to lean his head against Sam’s shoulder. Dean reflects that there’s a balance to it. The Garrison took two family members from the Winchesters, and now they’ve taken two family members from the Garrison.

At daybreak Sam and Luce have long since given up and left. Cas and Dean strip naked, and Cas (with some trepidation about braving the shark-infested waters) joins Dean to swim out to the drop cliff where they sit and watch the sunrise. There’s no telling what their future might bring, but Dean’s fucking happy.

Dean smiles and kisses saltwater droplets off of Cas’ shoulder. Right now, the future looks bright…

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> And please! Leave a comment! It'd make my day since I've worked on this fic for so long. :')


End file.
